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DARKWALKER
ON MOONSHAE
Douglas Niles
Dark Page i
DARKWALKER ON MOONSHAE
?2001 Wizards of the Coast, Inc.
All Rights Reserved.
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ISBN:
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Dark Page ii
PRELUDE
THE GODDESS AWAKENED slowly from her cold sleep,
awareness returning as the chill blanket of the
passing season fell away. Turning with imperial
grace, she sought the life-giving force of the renewed
sun.
Soon she felt its warmth upon the long and gravelly
beaches of her coastlines, and upon the stagnant
expanses of her low, flat marshes. Slowly, the sun
drove winter’s blanket from the rolling moors and
tilled fields.
The white mantle remained thick and heavy among
the forests and glens of the goddess, and the highlands
still showed no sign of acknowledging winter’s
end This was all as it should be, and the goddess
rejoiced in the growing vitality of her body, the earth.
She had grown smaller, of late, but her strength
was great. Her lands, though threatened, were in the
capable care of her druids, and even the harbingers of
the new gods treated her with a certain deference. In
the Moonwells—places where her power flowed
directly from her spirit to her body—water of high
magic lay clear and pristine among thick pines, and
in rocky clefts.
Cool seas bathed her lands, cleansing the debris
and decay left by the passing of winter. The goddess
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BOOK I
saw that her children still slept peacefully. They
could, she hoped, sleep long years still before she
needed to call them.
Through the Moonwells, she saw the clearing skies.
No longer did the heavy, iron-gray stormclouds
oppress her. The Ffolk were active, preparing for a
new season of growth. The druids moved among the
trees and mountains of her wild reaches, restoring
places where winter had disrupted the Balance.
Yet, as she threw off her blanket, she felt a sudden,
stabbing pain, penetrating deep within her. Hot and
threatening, the injury seemed ready to spread like a
cancer through her self.
One of the Moonwells was the source of the pain.
Instead of providing a window into the world, full of
cool and healthy power, the well burned like a poisoned
wound. Very black, it blocked the light and
absorbed her power, instead of nourishing it. As she
awakened, the goddess felt fear.
And she knew that, once again, the Beast would
stalk the land.
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1
EQUINOX
THE FIELDS AROUND Caer Corwell beckoned
brightly, as colored tents, proud banners, and gay
costumes all competed for the eye of the fairgoer. The
Festival of the Spring Equinox signaled the end of
winter, and the beginning of a season of new hope
and promise. To such an event, the Ffolk would come
from throughout the Kingdom of Corwell, and even
beyond, to join the celebration.
The deep harbor at the terminus of Corwell Firth
bristled with masts. The deep, sturdy coracles of the
Ffolk bobbed next to sleek longships of the northmen,
and both were dwarfed by the looming decks of
Calishite trading galleons.
Tristan Kendrick, Prince of Corwell, forced his way
through the crowd eagerly, barely absorbing the
sights and sounds all around him. A troop of Calishite
jugglers stood among the crowd, each deftly
controlling a ring of glittering scimitars. Tristan,
impatient, passed around the jugglers without
seeing them. He ignored the hawkers of bright silk,
though the oily Calishite trader sold colors never
before imagined in Corwell. In his haste, he even
passed the booths where the skilled armorsmiths of
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Caer Calidyrr displayed shining steel swords.
“Hello, Tristan!” called one of the farmers, arranging
jugs of milk on a table before him.
“Good morning,” added a fisherman from the village.
And so it went as he passed through the crowd,
receiving polite and friendly greetings from most
of the Ffolk. As usual, Tristan felt a brief flash of
annoyance, for no one addressed him by his title.
Just once, he would like to hear “Hello, my prince!”
or something equally appropriate.
But then he shrugged these thoughts away, just as
he shrugged away all serious thought of his rank,
and the responsibilities of his name. One day, perhaps,
he would give some thought to the duties he
would eventually face as king, but today . . . today he
had a mission here at the fair!
His step speeded up, and pretty country maids, in
fresh gowns of light linen, smiled coyly at him. The
prince felt very dashing, reflexively stroking the new
coat of hair upon his chin. His first beard had grown
in full and curling, slightly darker in color than his
wavy brown hair. His new woolen cloak and leather
trousers looked clean and shiny against his black
leather boots.
He felt alert and alive, full of spring fever.
Passing from the tents and stalls of the goods merchants,
Tristan moved between corrals and pens,
ignoring the sheep, the cattle, and even the horses.
Finally, he reached an expanse of clustered pens, and
here he found his objective.
“Greetings, my liege,” piped a cheerful voice, and
Tristan smiled at the advancing form of Pawldo, the
halfling.
DARKWALKER ON MOONSHAE
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wine cellars, Pawldo lived a life of excitement and
travel.
“I’ve spent the winter scouring the Sword Coast
and the Moonshaes, collecting the finest lot of dogs
you’ve ever seen. And I found the one for you, just to
the west of here—on the Isle of Moray. You won’t be
able to resist him!” Again Pawldo smiled, with a
slight twist to the corners of his mouth.
“Let’s have a look at him,” said Tristan, directing
his attention to the small pen behind Pawldo.
This year Pawldo was a dealer in hounds, and as
usual, his goods were offered in an assortment of
styles, for a variety of purses. Even as his eyes
passed quickly over the collection of bored dogs lying
in the sun, Tristan saw the one magnificent animal,
caught his breath, and whistled.
Trying to sound casual, he said, “Not a bad-looking
dog.”
“As if you had cause to doubt. . .” Pawldo started to
retort, but Tristan was not listening.
The animal was a moorhound—one of the savage
hunting dogs bred exclusively on the Moonshae
Islands. This was not remarkable—Trstan already
owned a dozen of the large dogs. But this moorhound
was a large and powerful specimen with a proud
bearing quite unusual for its kind.
Among the terriers, racers, and wolfhounds in
Pawldo’s collection, this great brown moorhound
stood out like a princess among scullery maids. His
brown coat gleamed, thick and smooth, over broad
shoulders and long, slender legs. Even for a
moorhound, he was huge. His eyes were riveted on
Tristan, just as the prince studied him.
“Where did you find him?” Tristan asked.
DARKWALKER ON MOONSHAE
7
“It’s good to see you, my friend,” the prince said sincerely,
clasping the diminutive man’s hand. “I’m glad
you made it back from your winter voyages safely.”
Pawldo beamed at the greeting, but his eyes held a
hint of avarice. The halfling was a stout and sturdy
little man, perhaps an inch or two over three feet in
height. He wore a weathered leather jacket and old,
but well-oiled boots. His gray hair hung over his ears
and collar, and his smiling face was clean-shaven and
free of wrinkles, though Pawldo was over sixty years
old.
Halflings lived on all the Isles of the Moonshaes,
mostly as neighbors to human settlements.
Although they were one of the original races, along
with the dwarves and the Llewyrr elves, to inhabit
the islands, they had adapted well to the coming of
humans. Now, they profited from business dealings
with the Ffolk, and benefited from the protection
afforded by nearby castles.
“And how are you, old crook?” asked the prince.
“Very well, and better soon, when I’ve had a chance
to part you from your purse!” responded Pawldo. The
halfling, shrewdly eyeing the leather pouch hanging
from Tristan’s belt, quickly concealed a smile of satisfaction.
Tristan could not suppress a surge of affection for
his old companion. Pawldo ostensibly lived in
Lowhill, the community of halfling burrows a mere
mile from Caer Corwell. The hardy old adventurer,
however, spent most of the year traveling about the
Moonshae Islands and the rest of the world in pursuit
of profit, so the prince saw very little of him.
Unlike most halflings, who were content to enjoy the
pastoral comforts of their burrows, pantries, and
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fine animal. I’ll give you ten gold for him!”
With a wail of anguish, Pawldo staggered backward.
“The sea swelled over the bows,” he cried in
his high, squeaking voice. “Bold sailors grew pale
with fear, and would have retreated, but I pressed
on! I knew, I told myself, of a prince who would sacrifice
his kingdom for such a dog—a prince who
would reward well the steadfastness of an erstwhile
friend . . . who would—”
“Hold!” cried Tristan, raising his hand and looking
the halfling in the eye while trying to keep from
laughing. “You shall have twenty, but no m—”
“Twenty!” The halfling’s voice squealed in outrage.
He turned to the listeners and threw out his hands, a
picture of wounded innocence. The two northmen
chuckled at his posturing.
“The sails hung in tatters from the beam! We
nearly capsized a dozen times. Waves the size of
mountains smashed us . . . and he offers me twenty
gold!” Pawldo turned back to the prince, whose smile
was growing thin. “Why a dog like this, to one who
knew such creatures, would fetch a hundred gold in
an instant—in any civilized port in the world!”
The halfling smiled disarmingly. “Still, we are
friends, and so I would remain. He is yours . . . for
eighty gold!” Pawldo bowed with a flourish to the
gasps of the growing crowd. Never had a dog been
sold for half of that asking price!
“You overestimate the size of my purse,” retorted
the prince, knowing full well that the price was going
to stretch the limits of his allowance. Ruefully, Tristan
groped for a bargaining strategy, but his purse
felt very vulnerable. Pawldo knew him too well; the
prince could not resist such a magnificent dog.
DARKWALKER ON MOONSHAE
9
“Came across with me from Norland, he did. Rode
in the bow like he was born to the sea. I’ve never seen
him take any notice of a man—until now that is.”
Tristan strode to the dog’s side, and knelt on the
muddy grass, his eyes level with the dog’s. He
thought of his hounds. Already they were fierce and
loyal hunters—but with a dog such as this to lead
them, they would be the finest pack of dogs in the
Isles! Tristan slowly took the great head in his
hands. The shaggy tail flickered slightly, swaying
from side to side.
The prince stared into the moorhound’s eyes and
whispered, “We shall be the greatest hunters on
Gwynneth—no, on all the Moonshaes! Even the Firbolgs
of the Highlands will tremble in fear at your
cry.
“Your name will be Canthus.” The dog regarded the
prince keenly, brown eyes shining. His mouth opened
slightly as he panted, and Tristan noted teeth the
size of his little finger.
A number of onlookers had gathered to observe
the prince, and Tristan felt a quick rush of pride as
he realized that they looked iration
upon his dog. A pair of savage, yellow-bearded
northmen stood behind Pawldo, jabbering in their
strange tongue full of yerg and url sounds. Several
fisherffolk, a woodsman, and two young boys also
watched. A crimson cloak, among the plain garb of
the villagers, marked a young Calishite trader, staring
in wonderment.
Tristan tried to conceal his eagerness as he stood
and turned back to Pawldo, but his palms were
sweating. He must have this dog! Trying to look disinterested,
he opened the bidding. “He is indeed a
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mass of Caer Corwell, towering above the commonsfield
on its rocky knoll, and thought briefly
of his father. If the king would not even see
Robyn—his beloved ward—then he would have
nothing to do with anyone.
“Never mind. Let the old coot sit and brood if he
wants to!” Tristan ignored the hurt look upon
Robyn’s face. “Did you see my new prize?”
“He’s a fine animal,” admitted Robyn somewhat
coldly. “But so was his price!”
“Yes, indeed,”chuckled Pawldo. The halfling thrust
out his hand again.
Tristan reached for his coin purse. He took minor
notice of a crimson flash to the side—the passing of
the Calishite in his bright cloak.
And then his hand closed upon air, where the fat
pouch had been.
He looked toward the ground, suddenly alarmed,
but then turned and stared. The red cloak was
nowhere to be seen.
“Thief!” Tristan cursed loudly, and sprinted in the
direction he had last seen the flash of crimson. Robyn
and Pawldo, momentarily surprised, started after
him.
Darting around a tent, and barely avoiding a tall
stack of kegs, Tristan saw the flash of red some distance
away. He caught a glimpse of dark eyes, and
then his quarry disappeared.
The prince dashed through a wine tent, leaping
several low benches and scattering several early
imbibers. Stumbling from the canvas structure back
into the aisle between tents, he looked for the thief.
Again the flash of red, and this time the prince
closed the distance. The Calishite sprang away with
DARKWALKER ON MOONSHAE
11
“I can offer you forty, but that is all I—”
“Forty gold,” pronounced Pawldo, still playing the
crowd. “A respectable sum, for a dog. If we talked of a
normal dog, I would say yes in an instant.”
“Fifty,” declared the prince, starting to get annoyed
at the high cost of doing business with Pawldo.
“Sold!”
“Well done! Bravo!”
The praise was accompanied by hearty handclapping
and a delighted, feminine laugh.
“Thank you, my dear Lady Robyn,” acknowledged
Pawldo, with a theatrical bow.
“And you—I’m surprised you got that crooked
halfling down from a hundred,” Robyn said to Tristan.
The young woman’s black hair gleamed in the
sunlight, and her green eyes sparkled. Unlike most
of the young ladies at the festival, she was clad in
practical garb—green leggings and a cape the color
of bright rust. Yet her beauty outshone that of the
most daintily dressed maidens.
The prince returned Robyn’s bright smile, pleased
to encounter her. The festival would be even more
fun if he could enjoy it with her on his arm.
“Are you here to buy a dog?” he asked, ignoring
Pawldo’s outstretched hand.
“No. I just came down here to see the animals.
The castle was too dark and cold for such a lovely
day!”
“Did you talk to my father this morning?” Tristan
asked, and immediately wished he hadn’t when he
saw the flash of pain on her face.
“No,” she said quietly, turning her head to the side.
“The king . . . wanted to be alone.”
“I understand,” replied Tristan. He looked at the
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thief ’s stance beckoned.
As Tristan paused, the curved dagger flashed
outward and up. The prince instinctively blocked
the blow with his own knife, but he was shocked
by the swiftness of the hissing blade.
The thief, too, looked surprised at the quickness of
the parry. “You use it well,” he acknowledged in
heavily accented Commonspeech, indicating the
heavy knife.
The crowd grew rapidly, but stood well back from
the fight. Their mood was tense and quiet now, as
they sensed the danger. But no one dared to intervene.
For the first time, Tristan felt a flash of worry. The
thief was so cool, even pleasant, yet he must know
that he had been caught. Why did he not simply surrender?
Suddenly, catlike, the man sprang. The attack
almost caught Tristan off guard, but his keyed
instincts sent him darting to the side. He grasped the
thief’s wrist as his attacker’s momentum carried him
past. Then, kicking out sharply to the side, the prince
knocked the Calishite to the ground.
But suddenly the grip in which Tristan held his foe
reversed itself, and the prince felt himself being
flung backward. The wind exploded from his lungs as
he landed heavily on his back. Like lightning, the
thief sprang toward his chest, curved dagger flashing
toward the prince’s neck.
Ignoring the pain in his chest, Tristan thrust his
knife to block the attack, then grasped his
attacker’s wrist with his free hand. In a dizzying
roll, they tumbled across the muddy grass, first one,
then the other holding the advantage. Giving a
DARKWALKER ON MOONSHAE
13
renewed speed, pushing roughly through groups of
people, and once spilling a stack of pots and pans into
the prince’s path. The thief ran well, but Trstan’s legs
carried him quickly over the ground, springing over
obstacles or cutting sharply around corners. Often
Arlen, the prince’s frustrated teacher, had forced his
student to run across the moors for hours at a time,
developing his endurance and, incidentally, using up
boyish energy. That training now paid off as Tristan
picked up speed down a straight aisle.
People turned to gape in astonishment at the two
runners. Quickly, the chase drew the attention of the
festival-goers.Many of the Ffolk, recognizing Tristan
and thinking it was some sort of merry game, gave
shouts and laughter of encouragement; soon the
prince was followed by an enthusiastic throng urging
him on.
Finally the prince closed the gap; with a desperate
dive, he grabbed the crimson cloak and jerked
the thief to the ground. Tristan fell heavily over
him, rolling once and then springing to his feet.
The thief also recovered, but by the time he stood,
the pair were surrounded by a mob of festivalgoers.
Whirling, the swarthy Calishite confronted the
prince with a long, curved dagger. Tristan quickly
snatched his own hunting blade from its sheath
and stopped ten feet from the Calishite. For several
seconds, the pair observed and judged each
other.
The thief, about Tristan’s size and not much
older, began to grin in anticipation, though it was
mixed with grudging respect for his opponent. The
black eyes flashed with humor, and danger, and the
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Meanwhile, the thief regarded the prince, the
guards, and Robyn with slowly dawning understanding.
“Prince?” he questioned, looking toward Pawldo for
confirmation. “So I stole the purse of a prince!” The
thief gave a rueful chuckle. “Luck of a she-camel,” he
declared in disgust, spitting into the grass. “What do
we do now?”
“Your luck will only get worse;’ grunted Erian as he
grabbed the Calishite by the scruff of his neck. Lifting
the thief easily, the huge man roughly frisked his
body.
“Here,” grunted the thief, awkwardly reaching
into his boot. He tossed the pouch of coins to Tristan.
“You’ll probably want these back,” and he
gave that rueful chuckle again. Against his will,
Tristan felt himself liking the bravado of the
young thief.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“My name is Daryth—of Calimshan.”
“Come along, now!” ordered Erian, forcefully
pushing the thief forward. “Let’s see what the king
has to say about this.” Daryth stumbled, and the
surly guard cuffed his head.
Robyn tugged at the prince’s arm as the guard led
the thief away. “If Erian takes him to the king,” she
whispered, “he’ll be executed for certain!” Her eyes
were wide with concern.
Thstan looked at the departing thief, and once
again felt that strange pang of jealousy. Still, he had
his purse back and the incident was over; it was not
enough to warrant a death sentence.
“Come on,” he grunted. “I don’t know what good it’ll
do, but we might as well go along with them.” He was
DARKWALKER ON MOONSHAE
15
wrenching twist, the thief suddenly broke free and
stood. Before he could step clear, however, Tristan
swept his leg through a circular kick. His foot
landed behind the thief ’s knee, and the man
dropped heavily. Tristan leaped onto him, holding
his knife to the stranger’s throat.
Slowly, the Calishite relaxed and then, amazingly,
began to laugh. Tristan wondered if the man
was crazy, then he realized he was nodding toward
Tristan’s stomach. The prince looked down to see
the curved dagger poised a scant hairsbreadth
from his gut. As the prince tried to keep from gasping,
the thief relaxed his hold, dropping the dagger
to the ground.
“I had no wish to hurt you,” he announced, in a
heavy accent. I only wanted to see if I could best
you.” He laughed again with unmistakable good
humor.
“Stand asidel Make way!”A squeaking voice parted
the crowd, and Pawldo burst through the ring of
onlookers. With him came Erian, a great bear of a
man and one of Caer Corwell’s veteran men-at-arms.
Robyn trailed behind.
“Are you all right, my prince?” inquired the
halfling.
Tristan was about to answer when he noticed,
with some annoyance, that Robyn was not looking
at him, nor did she seem in the least bit worried
about him. Instead, she stared at the Calishite thief
with a curiosity the prince found strangely objectionable.
Suddenly she flashed a look at him, and grinned.
“That was a neat trick. Did you ever see a blade move
so fast?”
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Those misshapen giants—cousins of the Beast
itself—ran fearfully at its approach. It took considerable
coaxing, and a certain amount of potent
enchantment, before the Beast could draw the chief
of the Firbolgs to itself.
The ugly giant cringed in fear. His bulbous nose
covered with sweat, the Firbolg scratched nervously
at a wart, and bobbed his head in mute understanding.
The Firbolg were the first spawn of the Beast,
brought by Kazgoroth to the Isles of Moonshae in
the dim recesses of the past. Pulling the ancestors
of the Firbolg from the sea, the Beast had taken
them to Myrlock Vale. Here they lived in isolation,
becoming sullen, bored, and lazy.
Emerging eventually from the muck and mire of
the fens, the Beast roamed through wilderness for
many days. Finally, the monster passed from the
wilderness into farmland, and soon came upon a
herd of cattle, sheltering in a remote glen.
The fat cows made a fine feast. Blood-spattered
jaws gaping, the Beast again moved, this time cautiously.
It knew instinctively that it neared the
realms of men. The Beast felt no fear, but preferred
to avoid detection for as long as possible.
Its mind grew sharper with the fresh blood of its
kill and the life-giving oxygen of the spring air flowing
through the giant body. The monster realized
that its present shape was the wrong one for the
Task. What form should the new body take?
Kazgoroth recalled its bovine feast, and was
pleased. Slowly, its scaly shoulders shrank, and its
lizardlike head shifted into a broad snout. Horns
sprouted, and claws and scaly legs became hooves
DARKWALKER ON MOONSHAE
17
glad he had said it when Robyn squeezed his hand in
gratitude.
* * * * *
Black waters swirled and parted, and the form of
the Beast rose from the still coolness of the Darkwell.
Massive and tight-knit trailing vines crowded close,
but the broad, scaly body thrust the interfering
plants aside like blades of grass.
Kazgoroth moved slowly, reveling in this new
freedom. Yet the Darkwell had served its purpose,
for the monster felt power coursing hotly through
its body as never before in its long centuries of existence.
The goddess—the Beast’s ancient enemy—must
be vulnerable. The Beast allowed a trickle of acidic
saliva to drool from its widespread jaws, Turning its
hot, fiery eyes to the pool, it watched the thick
waters of the Darkwell bubble in its wake.
Pulling its feet from the sucking mud, the creature
pushed its way into the fens, Tree trunks
snapped like brittle twigs as broad shoulders
pushed them from its path. A heavy, clawed foot
squashed flowers, insects, and rodents with equal
lack of note. The sounds of cracking limbs, crushed
vegetation, and sticky mud slurping with each
mighty footfall shot violently through the wood.
Wildlife shrank from the path of the Beast, racing
in terror or cowering in abject fear until the monster
passed.
As the Beast walked, the Firbolg were called to
serve their ancient master—and serve it, they did.
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This type of body would serve admirably. Instinct
guided the monster to make several alterations.
Hair, the color of ripe wheat, spilled down its back.
Teeth straightened, and the small nose tilted
slightly toward the sky. The body became slimmer
at the waist and thighs, but other places the Beast
kept plump and rounded.
Clothing, the Beast perceived, would be necessary
for the disguise to be complete. The night grew
darker, and Kazgoroth slipped silently into a small
building, where it sensed many humans were
asleep. The necessary garments lay within a large
trunk. For a moment, Kazgoroth considered with
longing the fresh blood coursing through the bodies
of the sleeping humans, Caution prevailed and the
monster left, allowing these humans to live.
Dawn colored the sky as Kazgoroth again moved
west. Now the chill reflection of the sea came into
sight, stretching away to the horizon and beyond.
But the monster’s goal was much closer than the
horizon, or even the sea.
Before the waters stood a small castle, and Kazgoroth
knew that humans in abundance would lair
here. Before the castle spread broad fields, covered
with tents and banners and stirring with activity
and life.
To this field, Kazgoroth moved.
* * * * *
Enjoying flexing his muscle at his prisoner’s
expense, Erian firmly propelled the thief toward the
castle. Although a capable man-at-arms, the huge
DARKWALKER ON MOONSHAE
19
and knobby legs supporting the wide, hairy body.
Soon, Kazgoroth concealed itself in the body of a
huge bull. The glittering redness of the Beast’s eyes
seemed to fit the new guise naturally.
And the change was timely, for the monster now
felt a disturbance. Humansl Two of them, emerging
from woods into the glen. A man and a woman, running
to the carcasses of the herd, making strange,
keening noises.
Kazgoroth liked this body. This was flesh of
power and speed . . . killing flesh. The great head
lowered, heavy horns swinging. The charge was
swift, the deaths satisfying. The Beast reveled in
the human blood, knowing that the slaying of
lesser creatures could not compare to this sensual
gratification.
The great bull moved majestically from the glen,
following a wide track toward the setting sun. The
monster knew, without understanding, that it
would find many more people in that direction.
As the twilight faded to night, the Beast saw many
people quickly shuttering windows, and saw others
run in fear at its approach. The crude brain, becoming
more adept with each passing second, realized
that the body of the bull would attract too much
attention from humans in these settled reaches.
Something more subtle was necessary.
The monster recalled its human victims. One, the
female, had a body that was rounded, and supple,
and strangely pleasing. A body that would blend
well here. Deep in shadow, the creature again
shifted, gradually rising and walking on two
smooth, shapely legs. Arms and a face, soft and
white, adorned the rounded torso.
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nity was nearly empty now, as the villagers were all
at the festival. A low wall, more a symbol of a border
than a real bastion of defense, surrounded the village
on three sides. The wooden docks of the waterfront
created the fourth side.
These docks reached into a placid circle of blue,
formed by a high stone breakwater.Within the circle
were anchored the dozens of vessels of the Corwellian
fisherffolk, as well as the larger vessels of the
visiting traders.
The little party neared the castle, their steps slowing
from the steepness of the climb. The castle road
spiraled around the steep knoll, making a long curve
to the gatehouse. To the walkers’ left, the side of the
knoll itself dropped rapidly to the commonsfield
below. To their right, the same slope rose steeply to
the base of the wooden palisade.
Robyn finally broke the awkward silence among
the four. She fell in step with the thief, caught his
eye, and, with a bold smile, spoke.
“I’m Robyn, and this is Tristan.”
Daryth looked at the prince quizzically. “Your . . .
sister?” he asked, indicating Robyn.
“No. Robyn was raised as my father’s ward,”
explained Tristan, suddenly eager to clarify the relationship.
He remembered, momentarily, how
annoyed he had been at the way Robyn had looked at
the thief after the fight. She was looking at him that
way again, something more than curiosity in her
eyes.
“The pleasure is all mine,” offered the thief. “I’m
afraid circumstances prevent me from—urf! ” Erian
gave a sharp tug to Daryth’s cloak, cutting him off in
mid-sentence.
DARKWALKER ON MOONSHAE
21
fighter had little patience for peacetime, and obviously
relished the opportunity for violence. Robyn
and Tristan walked behind Erian and his prisoner,
who still retained his sense of good cheer. They
started up the paved roadway leading to the castle’s
gatehouse.
Caer Corwell loomed above the festival, and the
town and harbor of Corwell, from high upon a rocky
knoll. The castle’s outer wall—a high, timber palisade—
ran along the circumference of the knoll,
broken only by the high stone edifice of the gatehouse.
The top of the knoll was mainly devoted to the
courtyard but the tops of some castle buildings, particularly
the three towers of the keep, jutted above
the spiked parapet.
The broad parapet of the tallest of the three towers
was visible as the highest point for miles in all directions.
Fluttering boldly from this platform streamed
the black banner emblazoned with the silver bear—
the Great Bear of the Kendricks.
If the three Ffolk moving up the castle road had
been less familiar with the sight, they might have
marveled at the panorama opening around them
as they climbed higher. The commonsfield,
sparkling with the colorful tents and banners of
the festival, immediately caught the eye, its commotion
contrasting with the calm, blue waters of
Corwell Firth stretching off to the west. In the
center of the commonsfield, the green and pastoral
circle of the Druid’s Grove remained pristine, dignified
and natural.
The village of Corwell lay next to the firth on the
far side of the festival grounds. Made up mainly of
small wooden cottages and shops, the little commu-
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Daryth stopped for a moment and cast a hurried
glance back at the festival grounds and the harbor.
For a second, his eyes scanned the scene, as if seeking
something.
“Move, you,” ordered Erian, giving Daryth a shove
through the open archway in the gatehouse. Tristan
stepped forward to rebuke the guard, but paused at
the pressure of Robyn’s hand on his arm.
“What can we do?” she whispered, urgently. “Surely
he doesn’t deserve to die!”
Her tone brooked no argument, and in any event,
Tristan shared her sentiment. “He seems like a
decent fellow,” he said in a low voice. “But the king
will look harshly on any thief who has preyed on festival-
goers. What can I do?”
“I don’t know,” she replied, irritated. “Think of
something, for once!” Before he could reply, she
dashed forward and caught up with the guard and
his prisoner as they entered the sunlit courtyard.
Cursing under his breath, Tristan followed.
A dozen moorhounds came racing from the kennel
at the far end of the courtyard. Sniffing and wagging,
they swarmed around Tristan, investigating Daryth
and Robyn as well. They kept their distance from
Erian, since the big guard’s heavy boots were well
known to dogs who ventured too close.
Daryth looked surprised at the savage appearance
but friendly dispositions of the large dogs. He talked
to them, and stroked their shaggy necks. Soon they
all crowded around him, following him as he walked
along, prodded by Erian.
Reaching the doors to the great hall, the prince,
suddenly inspired, turned to the man-at-arms. “You
are dismissed, Erian,” he announced. “Tell my father
DARKWALKER ON MOONSHAE
23
“Not so rough, Erian,” Tristan told the guard. “He
offers no resistance.”
Erian almost sneered at the prince, but settled for
turning his back in disgust.
“Very perceptive,” muttered Daryth, nodding his
appreciation. “As a matter of fact, I hope to convince
you that this is all a giant misunderstanding. In
truth, I like this little town, and intend to stay here—
for a while anyway.
“You see,” he continued as if in confidence, “I’m
really no sailor. I came here on the Silver Crescent,
working my way.
“I, a master trainer of dogs, forced to such . . .Well,
anyway, your little town seemed like a convenient
location. I was going to settle down, start an honest
business—”
“But temptation got the better of you,” concluded
the prince.
“Er, I am really very sorry about that. Rather
mischievous of me. If I had known then what I do
now . . . but I suppose there’s no sense crying about
it.”
The group reached the gatehouse, and the bulk of
Caer Corwell towered above them. The great wooden
palisade stretched to the right and left until it curved
out of sight around the crest of the knoll.
The gatehouse, which stood astride the road at the
top of the steep, rocky knoll, consisted of a large
stone building with four squat towers at the corners.
Since the road allowed the only easy access from the
coastal plain to the knoll, it was the most heavily
defended approach. As usual, however, the heavy
wooden gates stood open, and the sturdy portcullis
beyond was raised out of the way.
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fireplace at the far end of the hall. Before that fireplace,
in a heavy wooden chair, sat King Kendrick of
Corwell.
The king looked up at their approach, but said
nothing. Tristan could not help but feel an irrational
flicker of guilt at the sight of the deep lines of sorrow
etched into his father’s face. He steeled himself for
the encounter.
King Bryon Kendrick’s hair was black grown heavily
streaked with gray. Among the lines on his face,
one could see strength and determination, as well as
pain and grief. The king’s beard, like his hair a mass
of black salted with patches of gray and white, flowed
down his chest.
As usual, King Kendrick looked bored at the
prince’s approach. It was no secret to anyone that
the prince of Corwell was something of a disappointment
to the king. Tristan hoped the king
would not harangue him with sarcasm in front of
Robyn and the others.
To Tristans relief, the king turned to smile at
Robyn, and his eyes, briefly, flashed a spark of
warmth. Then, cold again, they regarded the
approaching Calishite.
Next to the king sat Arlen, captain of the king’s
guard and Tristan’s lifelong teacher. The grizzled
warhorse looked at Tristan speculatively as he and
his companions reached the seated men.
“Hello, Father, Arlen,” began Tristan, while Robyn
curtseyed quickly.
The prince looked again at Daryth, and the Calishite
responded to the glance with a fast smile. And
with that smile, Tristan felt the.beginning of a deep
and true friendship, something stalwart and fine
DARKWALKER ON MOONSHAE
25
we wish to see him!” Robyn flashed him a look of surprise.
The guard opened his mouth to protest, but Tristan
cut him off with a stern gesture. “Very well,” the big
man shrugged, then turned and moved across the
courtyard.
Apparently Daryth, busy scratching the chin of
Angus, Tristan’s oldest hound, did not notice the
exchange. He was absorbed in the veteran hunting
dog, which wrinkled his brown face in pleasure, and
swung his tail slowly in a circle.
“These are beautiful dogs,” declared the awed Calishite.
“They are yours, are they not?”
Tristan felt a flush of pride. His hounds were the
passion of his life, and he was always pleased to have
them complimented.
“Indeed,” he said. “Are you familiar with the
hounds of the Moonshaes?”
“Any man who enjoys dogs has heard of the
moorhound. I have trained many types of dogs in my
life. For many years, in Calimshan, I worked with
desert racers. I had thought no dog could compare to
the racer as a hunter, but these hounds are superior
in size and powerl Oh, for a chance to train such as
these!”
Robyn looked warmly at Daryth, then turned to
Tristan, a mute appeal shining from her dark eyes.
Again the prince felt that surge of jealousy.
The doors to the great hall swung open, and a maid
emerged to escort them in, for Caer Corwell had no
heralds. “The king awaits you,” she announced with a
polite nod.
The trio entered the shadowy hall. They walked
between a pair of huge oaken tables toward the great
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The long summer before him beckoned like a
seductive woman, and Grunnarch’s mind roamed
happily over prospects of raiding and stealing, capturing
slaves, and fighting glorious battles in the
months ahead.
Grunnarch sailed to the Iron Keep, fortress of
Thelgaar Ironhand on Oman’s isle. Central among
the Moonshae Islands, the keep had a fine deep
harbor and, more importantly, the fortress of the
northmen’s most powerful king, Thelgaar Ironhand.
From Iron Keep, the northmen could reach Moray,
Gwynneth, or Callidyr—all the lands of the Ffolk.
The divided kingdoms of the Ffolk practically
begged to be raided. If Thelgaar, with his huge fleet
and battle-hardened army, decided to join the campaign,
there would be no limit to the summer’s
potential.
And indeed, two days before landfall, masts were
sighted upon the northern horizon. In a matter of
hours, Grunnarch recognized the blue whale
insignia of Raag Hammerstaad, king of the
Norheim Isles. Raag also sailed with many ships.
Grunnarch wondered how many other kingdoms
might decide to join the warlike throng this
summer.
The two fleets merged, and the wind freshened. A
hundred ships coursed through the waves, all intent
upon Oman harbor. Soon the rocky outline of the
island broke the southeast horizon. Grunnarch’s
vessel in the lead, the fleet filed around the
promontory that protected the harbor. Grunnarch
grunted in pleasure at the scene in the harbor.
The hundred ships of Thelgaar lined part of the
shore of the harbor. In addition to the Iron King’s
DARKWALKER ON MOONSHAE
27
that would last between the two of them for the rest
of their lives. His mind made up, he quickly settled
upon a strategy to save the Calishite’s life.
“Father,” Tristan said again, turning to the king, “I
would like us to hire this man as the royal houndmaster.”
* * * * *
Grunnarch the Red stood boldly upon the rolling
deck of his longship as the sleek vessel pitched and
rocked through looming swells. All around him, like
a forest of tall trees, the masts of longships jutted
proudly from the Sea of Moonshae. The northmen
sailed to war!
Grunnarch, and dozens of the ships of his henchmen—
the lesser lords of Norland who owed fealty to
him, their king—had taken to sea a week earlier
than caution dictated. A late winter storm could
have caught his fleet unawares, and wreaked fearful
havoc.
But the King of Norland was a gambling man,
and a fearless one. He had never shirked from risking
his own life, and would not tolerate a follower
unwilling to do the same. So his men, by the thousand,
had followed him to sea.
The gods of war had thundered in Grunnarch’s
mind throughout the winter, and he had paced his
gray fortress like a raging Firbolg. The tension, he
knew, had been felt throughout Norland. Thus, even
before the weather had broken completely, the
northmen had provisioned their longships, bade
farewell to their homes, and taken to sea.
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2
A PROPHECY
ERIAN STRODE RAPIDLY back through the gatehouse
and down the road to the festival. He was anxious
to return to the fun. Damn that little gamecock,
anyway, he swore, thinking of the prince. I save his
skin from that slithering spitball of a Calishite, and
for what?
The big guard spat angrily into the dust, and felt a
little better. He thought of Geoffrey the aleman, who
would undoubtedly have several cool kegs tapped
near a comfortable bench. With a dozen silver coins
in his pocket, Erian would be able to drink all day
and most of the night.
Geoffrey’s tent, bigger than most, also rose above
the others like a beckoning tower. As Erian had
guessed, the fat innkeeper offered uncorked kegs of
light and dark ale, as well as thick Callidyrr mead.
Splurging, the man-at-arms used one of his silver
pieces to purchase a huge tankard of mead.
Turning from the bar, Erian surveyed the other
occupants of the tent. Several northmen clustered
nearby, drinking quietly. A young bard entertained a
group of men and women, farmerffolk, in the far
corner.
29
warships were those of many other kingdoms,
already arrived and arrayed for war.
This would indeed be a summer of blood and plunder.
* * * * *
The goddess shivered, and flinched. She felt her
body growing numb—not from fear, but from a distant
and wistful sadness. The feeling was remote, and
she took no great notice of it. Gradually, though, she
began to recognize the numbness for the dire threat it
was.
With an effort, she forced herself to stir. Passivity
now, she knew instinctively, would be fatal. The call
she sent reverberated through the earth, thrumming
deep within the mountains and hills, and even rolling
along the bottorn of the sea.
Hoping that it was not too late, the goddess tried to
awaken her children.
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The day passed quickly. Ale and wine stalls were
numerous, and Erian found a reason to visit each one
and quench his thirst. Meridith drank an occasional
glass of wine, but professed a distaste for malt beverage.
Nonetheless, she encouraged him not to allow
her abstinence to interfere with his thirst.
Later, the coolness of the spring night drove them
close together. Meridith’s body seemed to harbor a
deep chill, and Erian enjoyed the opportunity to
wrap her against him in his cloak. She fit nicely at
his side, snuggling closer with an eagerness that
delighted and excited him.
Once, during the day, they had passed the prince,
touring the festival with the king’s ward and, to
Erian’s surprise, the Calishite thief who had robbed
him that very day. The guard turned to remark about
the fact, and Erian saw Meredith watching the
prince’s party with a look of frightening intensity.
Immediately, the guard felt a surge of raw jealousy.
“Who is that?” she asked in a low voice.
“He’s the young poppinjay of a prince—carries
himself like he owns the whole town,” grumbled the
guard, in a not altogether accurate description. “He’s
a disgrace to the Kendrick name! Cares not a whit
for the responsibilities of his position—all he’s interested
in are his blasted hounds and having a good
time!”
Erian turned and scowled at Meridith. “What are
you looking at him for, anyway? Come on!” He
reached for her arm to pull her away, but her voice,
strangely urgent, cut him off.
“And the girl? Who is she?”
Now Erian looked back, for Robyn was a sight his
eyes had rested upon more than once. Although her
DARKWALKER ON MOONSHAE
31
Then he saw the woman sitting quietly in the darkest
corner of the tent. She regarded him with a bold,
somewhat amused gaze—a gaze that Erian returned
with interest. Her eyes flashed once, very quickly.
He saw that she wore peasant clothes, which
seemed much too large for her. Nonetheless, the outlines
of her body, he also noticed, stood out clearly
against the casually wrinkled cloth, curving deliciously
as though to scorn the plain raiment.
Staring, Erian somehow found himself standing
before her. Even with her face still masked by
shadow, she overwhelmed him. He sat before her, and
slowly remembered where, and who, he was.
“My name is Erian,” he announced, feeling somehow
proud of the fact that he was able to talk at all.
“I am . . . Meridith,” responded the woman. She
blinked, and he noticed that her eyes were strangely
vague, almost empty. Yet they had flashed at him
from across the room!
“That is an unusual name. Do you come from
Calidyrr, or farther places?” he asked.
She seemed amused, for a moment, as she replied,
“I come from, yes, farther places.”
“How do you like our festival?” Erian asked, thinking
with pleasure of spending a day escorting
Meridith about the festival. And of the night that
would, perhaps, follow.
“It is quite interesting,” responded the woman, as if
reading his mind. “But I should like to see more of it.”
Erian beamed. “Allow me to be your escort!”
Standing, he offered his arm, playing the part of
the gallant. She laughed, and rose also. For just a
moment, he saw that flash of fire in her eyes, and his
blood raced.
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saw again those fiery eyes. This time, it was as if
the door to a furnace had been cast open, and he
saw great depths of fire, and heat . . .
And death. She sucked the air and the spirit
from his body, replacing it with something foul and
perverted. The spirit of the man remained within
his body, but it was twisted by the power of the
Darkwell into something mightier, but something
terribly evil.
* * * * *
“Let’s get back to the festival,” the prince suggested,
after Daryth had been shown his new
quarters in the barracks.
The Calishite claimed to have no more possessions
than those he carried. He had quickly refused Tristan’s
suggestion that they visit the galleon in the
harbor that had brought him to Corwell. Daryth was
pleasant and talkative, but resisted any attempts to
question him about his background.
“What’s Calimshan like?” asked Robyn.
Daryth shrugged, but then smiled at her disarmingly.
“Like any powerful nation, I guess. It’s run by
the merchants, mostly, under control of the Pasha. I
served the Pasha directly—a position of high honor, I
suppose.” The Calishite’s tone showed that he
thought very little of the honor.
“How about the festival?” prodded the prince, feeling
a little thirsty.
“You two go ahead,” said the Calishite. “I’d like to
settle in here and relax a bit.”
“You’re coming with us!” Robyn’s tone brooked no
DARKWALKER ON MOONSHAE
33
shape was hidden beneath her long cape, there were,
the guard remembered, gentle curves and soft swells
that had turned the lass into a woman over the last
two years. The memories inflamed his ardor, and
again he reached for Meridith. This time, his arms
slipped about her, and she allowed his hand to drop
boldly along her back.
“She’s the king’s ward—an orphan, they say. She’s
lived in the castle since she was a baby.”
“Interesting,” mused Meredith, as the guard led
her away. Her voice, soft and husky, nearly brought
Erian’s blood to a boil. As he found another ale tent,
the woman’s unblinking eyes turned back to Tristan
and Robyn, curious, and a little menacing. But when
Erian returned with a full mug, Meredith laughed
gaily and allowed the big man to take her arm and
lead her through the fair.
Eventually they returned to the ale tent where
they met, and sat again on the corner bench. Erian
felt he must have said something terribly witty, for
Meridith was laughing delightedly. And then she
paused, regarding him. Again that spark in her
eyes, this time a gleaming as of hot coals on a dark
night.
She leaned forward and kissed him, and her
mouth was hot. The coolness seemed to have left
her body, as she leaned against him. She was heat
everywhere, and perspiration flowed from his
pores.
Erian met her kiss with crushing force, driving
his mouth against hers and reaching for her body.
She melted backward and he leaned over her. She
clasped him, nibbling at his ear and neck. He
looked down as she moved again to kiss him, and
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Pawldo’s and make the arrangements.”
“Did I hear my name?” Tristan looked around to
see little Pawldo beaming up at him. Clinging to his
arm, looking nervously at them, was a young halfling
maiden.
“Allow me to introduce Allian,” stated Pawldo formally.
“My dear, this is Tristan Kendrick, prince of
Corwell, the king’s ward, Robyn, and—say, aren’t
you—” Pawldo’s eyes widened at the sight of Daryth.
“And this is Daryth of Calimshan,” Tristan interjected,
bowing to Allian, who blushed deeply.
“Delighted to meet you all,” she giggled, her voice
even higher pitched than Pawldo’s.
“Tristan pulled the leather pouch from his pocket.
“Here’s your money, Pawldo. Forty gold, right?”
“Tch—with a memory like that, you’ll never make
a king!” Pawldo grinned. “The figure I recall is fifty!”
“Indeed,” muttered Tristan, counting out ten more
gold pieces. “I’ll pick up the hound in the morning.”
“Well, we’re off!” announced the halfling, tucking
away the coins. “The halflings of Lowhill are having a
big dance tonight!” He and the young maid swiftly
melted into the crowd.
“I don’t know where to begin!” cried Robyn,
whirling around and trying to see everything.
A pair of tumblers rolled between the companions,
and Robyn, startled, stepped backward. “Look!” she
called.
Seizing Tristan’s arm, she pulled him along behind
the acrobats. But the prince noticed that her other
arm was just as warmly clasping Daryth’s.
“Perhaps a cool mug of ale . . .” the prince suggested.
In an instant, Robyn had pulled them into a
small stall. Tristan found himself buying a round for
DARKWALKER ON MOONSHAE
35
argument. “This is the liveliest night Corwell will see
until Midsummer, and I’m not going to let you miss
it!”
For a moment, it seemed to the prince that a
shadow passed across Daryth’s face. Tristan hoped
he would disagree with the woman and stay behind,
but he relented.
“Very well. Let’s have some fun.”
The golden reflections of sunset still flickered in
Corwell Firth as Tristan, Robyn, and Daryth
returned to the festival. Many revelers carried
torches, and bright lanterns hung from all of the
stalls, so the meadow was lit against the darkness.
Still, just beyond the periphery of the celebration,
the cold spring air was black and mysterious.
In the pocket of light, the spring celebration
approached frenzy. Bards struck their harps with
enthusiasm, the opposing sounds mingling in the air.
Hucksters pressed their wares eagerly, the sellers of
meads and ales prospered, and much gold and silver
changed hands.
Celebrations of the Ffolk were hard-drinking
affairs, and the spring festival washed away a
winter’s worth of boredom. In many places, snoring
bodies lay along the aisles or underneath the drinking
benches. These were ignored by their fellows who
could still walk.
The air of the festival made Tristan bubble with
enthusiasm and excitement. Daryth observed the
festivities with unabashed wonder.
“Twice better than last year’s,” observed the prince,
watching Robyn laugh happily, “as it should be.”
Then he paused abruptly and his face went blank as
he remembered. “The hound. I’d better stop at
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suddenly nervous. “But trust me, we ought to find
our fun elsewhere!”
Robyn looked again at the entrance. Tristan, certain
that the headstrong lass would ignore Daryth
and charge right in, was more surprised when, without
further argument, she spun and turned away.
Brushing past both Daryth and the prince, she
walked on. Tristan saw Daryth cast a frightened
glance at the tent, and run to catch up with her.
“Here,” Robyn called gaily, rushing to the entrance
of another silken tent. They crowded inside and
spent several minutes watching a snake charmer
artfully coerce his serpentine pets from their large,
clay jars. In the back of the tent, the snake charmer
displayed, chained to a stout post, a great Firbolg.
The giant slept, so its ferocity could not be tested.
“Look at that nose!” commented the prince, watching
the great organ flex with the Firbolg’s heavy
snores.
“The poor creature,” said Robyn, with an angry
look about the tent. “Keeping it chained up like an
animal!”
“It’s worse than an animal,” charged Tristan. “It’s a
monster!”
“Some monster!” Robyn snorted. “Old and weary, I
would say, and better off wherever it came from!” She
stalked off.
Once again, the young men found themselves hurrying
through the festival grounds, trying to keep
Robyn in sight. Shortly, Tristan found himself in a
smoky but huge tent, watching oiled dancers undulate
to the jarring rhythm of tiny cymbals and wailing
pipes. He would have been willing to watch more
of the exotic dance, but he found himself annoyed
DARKWALKER ON MOONSHAE
37
his companions, as well as the half dozen Ffolk in the
place.
“Many thanks, my prince!” acknowledged an old
farmer with a broad smile. Tristan reflected that he
heard his title only from good friends, or drunks. In
a corner of the stall, a lesser bard tried to strum a
lively country tune. Several equally lively wenches
surrounded the musician, urging him on, dancing
and laughing, and kicking high at the growing
crowd of onlookers. The festive atmosphere made
them ignore the fact that the music was slow and
and dissonant, for the bard had not thoroughly
mastered his harp. The prince thought it was unfortunate
that the greater bards all gathered to play at
Caer Callidyr, citadel of the High King, for the
spring festival.
Tristan watched with interest, but then Robyn was
gone again.
“Come on!” she called before disappearing around a
huge green and yellow tent of gleaming silk. The
canopy seemed to shine brighter in the torchlight
than it had in sunlight, perhaps because of the contrast
against the inky background.
Following Robyn around the tent, the men found
her staring with interest through a hooded doorway,
into a darkened tent interior. Acrid smoke puffed
from the entrance, and she coughed slightly.
She started to step through the door when Daryth
moved forward. “This is a Calishite tent, Robyn, and
I know the odor of the ginyak weed. This is not a
place for a young lady.”
“What makes you think I’d be in trouble there?”
she asked, a glare in her eye.
“I did not mean to . . . please!” Daryth stuttered,
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preaching on the Moonshae Islands for a century or
more, many of the Ffolk still clung to their traditional
worship of the earthmother. The Ffolk
accepted, and even appreciated, the clerics, for their
powers were beneficial, and their practices benign.
Still, old traditions carried great weight among the
Ffolk, and the presence of the druids served as a
strong counter to the clerics of the new gods.
The source of the druids’ might came from the wild
places of the Moonshae Islands—particularly the
Moonwells. Mostly solitary, living in secluded groves,
the druids gathered at the communities of the Ffolk
for occasions such as the festival, or emergencies
such as floods, earthquakes, or war.
“And there, as if the rest of this wretchedness is not
enough, the final blow is struck.” Friar Nolan’s pudgy
finger, quivering with indignation, pointed across the
aisle.
Tristan suppressed a smile as he understood the
reason for the cleric’s distress. Friar Nolan’s tent,
dedicated to the greater glory of the new gods, stood
directly across the walkway from the central grove of
the druids. The large stone arch draped with mistletoe,
which provided entrance to the grove, could not
have been more of an affront to the easily affronted
cleric.
“An unfortunate placement,” commiserated the
prince, but already he saw that Robyn was getting
away again. “Excuse me, but, you understand,” he
apologized as he raced on.
Robyn passed through the arch and entered the
druids’ grove, with Daryth and Tristan right behind.
The grove was quiet, and very dark. Although central
to the festival grounds, the grove seemed a world
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39
that Robyn so boldly joined the men in watching the
suggestive movements.
“Let’s go,” he said gruffly, and Daryth, too, urged
Robyn out of the tent.
One after another, they inspected the tents and
pavillions of the fair. Several times they lingered in a
meadhall, or wine tent, and the flush of many drinks
made the evening whirl more madly than ever. In
one such tent, Tristan saw the brawny form of Erian,
but the big guard had already collapsed in the corner.
In another, they ordered a massive limb of mutton,
which Daryth tore into as if half starved.
Other tents offered wares for sale, products of the
hardworking craftsmen of the Ffolk. Smooth pottery,
colorful wool cloaks and capes, and gleaming steel
weapons all displayed the skill of Tristan’s people,
and it was not without pride that he compared the
fine weapons to the cheaper, iron implements of the
northmen.
Robyn bartered with a crone of a weaver-woman
for a new cape, embroidered in a bright, leafy pattern.
Throwing it over her slender shoulders, she
whirled alluringly for her two companions.
Finally, the trio found themselves standing before
the white linen tent of Friar Nolan. The stout cleric
rushed from the entrance and fastened on Tristan.
“The shame! The debauchery!” Friar Nolan’s bald
head glistened with sweat, and his eyes were wide.
In emphasis, he bobbed his head excitedly at the
dancers and drunks thronging through the festival.
“The gods are forgiving, and will overlook much,
but I fear for many souls tonight,” the cleric continued
in a breathless rush.
Although the clerics of the new gods had been
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they blocked out the light of the full moon.
“Tomorrow, the druids will celebrate the spring
equinox here,” explained Robyn.
Suddenly, Tristan saw a shadow of movement
among the trees around them. Whirling, he saw several
hooded shapes emerge into the faint illumination
of the Moonwell. The druids were here, he
realized, and he wondered why the fact should have
surprised him. The figures moved forward with
stately grace. Each was concealed, head to toes, in a
dark robe.
“Prince of Corwell,” spoke the tallest of the robed
figures. His voice was rich and deep, but unpracticed,
as if he spoke but little. “We have expected you.”
“But how . . .” Tristan began, confused.
“I knew it!” Robyn interjected. “It wasn’t accident
that I felt compelled to enter the grove. And I
brought you here!” she said to Tristan, proud of herself.
Daryth had jerked around at the appearance of the
figures, his body shaking. “Who are you?” he
demanded.
“These are the druids,” explained Robyn calmly.
“And please, keep your voice down!”
“And you, my child,” said another figure. Tristan
was startled to see a pleasantly rounded older
woman. Unlike the other druids, her hood was
thrown back to reveal a plump, lined face, and a
warm smile. She looked kindly at Robyn. “My, how
time . . .” her voice trailed off, and she cleared her
throat.
The other druids remained silent as she looked the
trio over. Then she stepped back, nodding slightly to
the druid who had spoken first.
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41
removed from the madness and noise of the revelry.
Robyn moved slowly, almost reverently, into the
grove. She paused briefly under the arch, bowing her
head and whispering something softly. Then she
stepped forward, seeming to glide across the soft
grass toward the heart of the grove.
“What is this place?” Daryth asked, instinctively
lowering his voice to a whisper.
“This is the Corwell grove—of the druids,” the
prince explained. “At the center of the grove is a
Moonwell—a magical pool of water. The grove itself
is sacred—the trees cannot be cut, and no animal
entering here may be harmed.”
“Your religion sounds like an important part of
your lives,” remarked the Calishite.
“Perhaps. Robyn spends a lot of time here. She says
it calms her. Sometimes she studies with the druids,
I guess.”
“Oh?” Daryth raised his eyebrows and peered into
the shadows before them. “No wonder she appears to
know where she’s going, while I can’t even see my
nose in front of me!”
“Follow me,” the prince said. He stepped forward
confidently, and tripped over a root. Only Daryth’s
quick grasp of his cloak prevented him from sprawling
headlong.
“Can’t you be careful?” Robyn’s voice was sharp but
hushed, as she returned to the men. “Come with me,
carefully.”
They advanced slowly until their eyes adjusted
and they saw that the scene, in fact, was illuminated.
The source of the light, Daryth saw, was a milky pool
of water. Surrounding the pool was a ring of tall,
broad oak trees. The branches were so thick that
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him but shifting shadows, rippling fantastically in
the white aura from the Moonwell.
* * * * *
The Beast, still walking upright in the body of the
woman, left the festival throng and moved across
the moor, its strength rekindled by its recent feast.
Day or night meant nothing to Kazgoroth. The
monster walked always northward as moors gave
way to craggy hills. Even the deep snow which still
lay among these jagged and stony obstacles proved
undaunting. Kazgoroth, with a weight much
greater than a woman’s, sank through the snow to
the ground beneath. Unflinchingly, the female
human body plowed a furrow through the deepest
drifts.
Finally the monster reached the crest of the low
range, and saw the rolling terrain of central Gwynneth
spread before it. The crisp spring sunshine
glinted off hundreds of rocky peaks, which stretched
to the far horizon around a vast, tree-filled bowl. In
the center of the bowl, the deep waters of Myrloch
also glinted brightly in the sunshine. The flickering
ripples of the lake struck pain into the monster’s
eyes, and it looked away.
Myrloch, Kazgoroth’s dim consciousness realized
that the lake was still the preserve of the goddess.
Central Gwynneth had always been her strongest
domain. It was here that the remnants of the
Llewyrr fled when they lost their hopeless struggle
against the humans for the realms of Moonshae.
The Ffolk believed that the elves called Llewyrr
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43
“Know this, Prince of the Ffolk,” said the tall man
in a serious voice, “the images in the well foretell a
summer of peril, and an autumn of tragedy. You will
earn the right to rule, in this summer, or the tragedy
will be upon your shoulders.”
“Why? What peril? What are you—”
“The Moonshaes face a dire threat—a menace that
thwarts even the power of the goddess. Whether you
are the means to end that threat, or will become an
agent of its triumph, we cannot yet see.”
The woman interrupted the druid, and Tristan
noticed that the man quickly deferred to her.
“Oh, such stuff!” she exclaimed. “Yes, of course it
will be unpleasant. You might even get killed. But
you might not, too! And, my word, it’s time someone
drew the Sword of Cymrych Hugh again. Just,” she
concluded, her voice growing tender, “be very careful,
please!”
She turned away, and the prince caught the
sparkle of moisture in her eyes. Something in the
way she looked at Robyn as she moved away caught
his interest. And the girl, he saw, watched the departing
druidess with an expression of awe.
Then the male druid caught Tristan’s attention
again.
“Beware, Prince of Corwell, and care well for your
companions. The shadow of a mighty evil falls across
your path. You must decide whether to drive it back,
with light, or be swallowed by its darkness!” The
voice rose with power and urgency, until it finally
rang throughout the grove like the thrumming of a
heavy drum.
“Wait . . . ” The prince ysterious
figure, but suddenly he saw nothing before
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The cool waters pressed heavily against the floor of
the sea, far out of range of the sun’s warmth. Here, the
world knew neither winter nor summer, day nor
night. There was only the cool darkness, the eternal
darkness that cloaked a region nearly devoid of life.
Yet the goddess’s call reached through the pressure
of the depths, persistently nudging at the one of her
children who slept here. At first, the message was
ignored, and the one who was called slept on. Another
century or more might pass before the creature
stirred.
But the call of the mother was relentless, and
finally a hulking form stirred in the deep silt of the
sea bottom. Shrugging its giant body free from the
clutching muck, the creature rose from the bottom
and floated, nearly motionless, in the depths. Time
passed, and the form slowly sank toward the bottom
again.
But again the goddess prodded gently at her huge
child. The great head swung slowly from side to side,
and powerful flukes pushed hard against the sea
bottom. A mighty tail thrust downward, and the body
flexed along its vast length.
Then it began to move, slowly at first, but gaining
an awesome momentum. The flukes plowed the water
with solid authority, and the broad tail pushed with
unstoppable force. Higher, toward the realms of light,
and sun, and current, the creature moved.
It gathered speed as it rose, and energy seemed to
build in the mighty body. A stream of bubbles flowed
from the wide mouth, trickling around layers of huge
teeth and seeming to flow downward along the huge
body.
The water ahead grew slowly brighter, until the
DARKWALKER ON MOONSHAE
45
had died out in the Moonshaes; the Beast knew this
was not the case. Myrloch Vale hosted populations of
dwarves and Firbolgs who preferred to keep their
distance from humans. But living also within the
secret places of Myrloch Vale were, Kazgoroth knew,
communities of Llewyrr. The Beast would avoid
these, as their potent magic was one of the few forces
upon Gwynneth that gave the monster cause for concern.
The Beast was not yet ready to strike. Shrewd
enough to knoore allies, it
was on its way to find them. Still in human form,
Kazgoroth began the descent into the broad basin. It
had no particular business in Myrloch Vale, yet the
place stood across its path, and thus the land would
bear its passage.
Days of march slowly drained Kazgoroth’s
strength, and the monster felt a flare of annoyance.
The time fast approached when the Beast
would need to feast, and so it carried itself with
new vigilance, seeking a victim to sate its gnawing
hunger.
And soon it found what it sought. Seeing the
man alone in the woods, the monster’s awakening
subconscious suggested a ruse. The female body
shrank, twisting eerily into a new shape. Though
smaller and more dainty, the body still retained its
female roundess and flowing, golden locks.
Flitting lightly through the woods, Kazgoroth
moved forward to the kill.
* * * * *
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3
THE HUNT
TRAHERN OF OAKVALE walked silently among the
vast trunks of his forest domain. His brown robe
blended easily with the knobby trunks, and his
sturdy oaken staff provided additional balance as he
stepped lightly across fallen tree trunks and other
obstacles.
The druid was growing old, but Trahern still felt
pride in the state of his forest and the thriving
health of his creatures. The caretakership of any of
the forests around Myrloch was an honored post
among the druids, and Trahern had lived up to the
expectations placed upon him. He had avoided conflict
with the Llewyrr, though the faeriefolk often
traveled and camped in his preserve.
Trahern would be content to live out in peace the
remainder of his days tending Oakvale. Every twist
in the forest path he now followed, and every piece of
lichen and moss that bedecked the numerous tree
trunks lying about the woods, was as familiar to Trahern
as the interior of his own small cottage. And in
this familiarity, he found peace.
But now his peace had been interrupted. The
High Druid of Gwynneth, Genna Moonsinger, had
47
creature saw a pale gray glow spread across the
upper reaches of the sea. The grayness became blue,
and finally even the sun came into view, a shimmering
yellow dot viewed through the filter of the sea.
The body broke the surface of the water with explosive
force, sending a shower of brine through the air
in all directions. High, and impossibly higher, the
creature rose into the air, and still more of its length
emerged from the frothing sea. Water spilled from
the black skin in thundering waterfalls, until finally
the great head slowed, and paused for an instant.
With a crash that rocked the sea for miles around,
the body fell back to the surface.Waves exploded outward
from the falling body with enough force to capsize
a large ship. But the horizon was empty of either
land or sail.
There was none to see that the Leviathan had
awakened.
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* * * * *
The feathered decoy wafted high into the air, fluttering
like a wounded bird, and Tristan quickly drew
and sighted his arroissile fly,
cursing as it missed the target by ten feet.
The decoy glided on, and underneath it, on the
ground, streaked a brown form. Canthus followed
the fluttering object for over a hundred yards. As it
finally began settling back toward earth, the great
dog crouched, and then hurled himself into the air.
The decoy was still eight feet from the ground when
the dog’s powerful jaws closed over it.
The great moorhound had filled out in the few
weeks Tristan had owned him. His square jaw, thick
neck encircled by a studded iron collar, and sturdy
shoulders made him a very solid dog. His long legs
and strength insured that he was very fast.
“Good catch!” applauded Robyn, as Daryth whistled
for the dog to return.
“At least one of you might put some meat on the
table,” grunted Arlen, looking at Tristan in disappointment.
“Forget the damn bow!” cursed Tristan, throwing
down the weapon he was having trouble conquering.
“I can take care of myself well enough with my
sword!”
“Sure ye can,” agreed the older man. “But ye’ll
never be a king of the Ffolk if they can’t see that ye
wield a bow as well as a blade!”
“I don’t want to be king!” retorted the prince. “I’m
going to town.” He turned and stalked away from his
teacher and Robyn.
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49
summoned the druids of the land to gather in emergency
council on the shore of Myrloch. This rare circumstance
could only mean that grave danger
threatened the land. The old druid found the idea of
another crisis particularly annoying now that he
was in the autumn of his life. In fact, he had rudely
shooed away the owl that had brought him the summons.
A sudden movement at one side caught the druid’s
eye, and he paused to squint into the brush. His eyes
were not what they used to be, but again he saw a
shimmer of delicate movement. His heart pounded in
excitement as he saw a smoothly curved leg, trailing
a filmy gown, disappear behind a tree.
A dryad!
Trahern forgot the council in his eagerness to find
the tree sprite. Her lair must be near! Could it be
that she was calling him?
Trahern knew that occasionally a dryad would call
a druid to come and live with it for a time. These
druids never spoke of the experience afterwards, but
their eyes seemed to return to memories that were
most pleasant indeed. Now, perhaps he had been
calledl
The druid caught sight of the slender form again as
it slipped behind another tree. This time, the figure
turned back teasingly, and he saw sparkling eyes and
heard a tinkle of musical laughter.
Puffing with exertion, Trahern followed the dryad
around another tree. In his eagerness, he nearly
stumbled but was close behind the sprite as he
stepped around the bole of a giant oak.
There, Kazgoroth took him.
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suddenly, to virtual stillness. Loosing the arrow, the
prince watched it streak toward the target.
The shaft struck solidly, sending a spray of feathers
fluttering through the air. Even as the decoy,
changed direction, falling to earth, the great
moorhound whirled and leaped, catching the
remains of the target in his widespread jaws.
“Well done, lad,” grunted Arlen, in what for him
was an exuberant expression of pleasure. “There’s
hope ye’ll be an archer yet!”
Tristan smiled wanly, relieved at his success but
annoyed by the frustrations it took to get there. Still,
the praise pleased him.
“Now stop shooting for a moment and eat!” ordered
Robyn, returning with Daryth to the student and
teacher. The prince looked at her sharply, but she
paid no attention. “Here—I’ve made you something;”
she said, offering a covered bowl to the prince.
Tristan, admiring Canthus’s strong jaws as Daryth
removed the ruined decoy, took the bowl and
absently uncovered it. A sound of exasperation
caught his attention, and he realized that Robyn had
been waiting for him to say something. Too late now,
she was already stalking off toward the Calishite.
Tristan looked down and saw that she had prepared
one of his favorite dishes—a mixture of mushrooms,
lettuce, and chives. He started over to thank the lass,
but she pointedly turned her back and offered a similar
bowl to Daryth. Stung, the prince sat on the
ground and chewed his food.
“Hello!” A thin voice trailed up the hill, and Tristan
saw the diminutive figure of Pawldo climbing toward
them. In a few minutes, the halfling joined them. The
stocky little halfling was outfitted for walking but
DARKWALKER ON MOONSHAE
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“Tristan Kendrick!” Robyn’s voice dripped with
scorn. “For someone who doesn’t want to be king,
you sure like to act like one! Where in Gwynneth
did you learn to be so rude to your teacher?”
The prince turned, biting back an angry comment,
and looked at Robyn and Arlen. Daryth stood off to
the side, pretending not to pay attention.
“You’re right,” he agreed, lowering his gaze and
shaking his head. “I’m sorry, old friend.” He held out
his hand.
The old warrior took it briefly, then said gruffly,
“Get ready.” He prepared another decoy, then turned
to the prince. “And pay attention, damn ye! That last
shot was pure carelessness—ye forgot about the
wind, and it looked like ye took little notice of yer
target’s motion!”
Again, and again, the decoy fluttered up and the
prince shot arrows from the powerful longbow. Each
miss made him more annoyed, although several
shots grazed the target. The prince noted that Robyn
had gone to stand with Daryth, as the Calishite
directed the apparently tireless Canthus through his
retrieving.
“One more time,” Tristan said, almost snarling, as
his fingers tightened on the bow.
Arlen swung his arm, the launcher clicked, and
again the decoy fluttered into the air. As Canthus
raced across the grassy heath, the prince swiftly
drew and nocked an arrow. In an instant, the bowstring
was taut against Tristan’s ear, and he sighted
down the shaft as the decoy rose and spun across his
path.
Tristan advanced his aim, anticipating the flight of
the decoy, and took note of the wind. It had fallen,
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more of this island of yours!” Tristan noticed that the
Calishite’s accent grew less noticeable almost daily.
“I shall come, too,” announced Robyn.
The prince looked up in surprise. “But you’ve
always hated hunting . . .” he began.
“And so I do,” she replied. “Yet there are some types
of fungus that I wish to collect this year, and they can
be found nowhere on Gwynneth outside of Llyrath. I
shall ignore the senseless slaying that you will no
doubt commit . . . unless, of course, you’d rather I
went by myself.”
“Certainly not!” exclaimed Arlen and Tristan at the
same time.
Daryth raised his eyebrows. “What is this Llyrath
Forest place? Some kind of deathtrap?”
“No,” said Tristan, laughing. “But it is the wildest
part of the kingdom. We might meet wild boar or
even bear—there are few human residents.”
Tristan turned to Robyn. “And I’d like it if you come
with us—I was just thinking you wouldn’t enjoy it.
That’s all.”
“If you’re certain I won’t be too much in the way,”
she declared, frostily.
In fact, Tristan knew Robyn’s woodcraft to be superior
to his own. Arlen had given him considerable
training in the ways of the wild, but Robyn seemed to
have an uncanny rapport with it.
“It’s settled then!” she cried. “Let’s leave tomorrow!”
“How long will it take us to get there?” asked
Daryth.
“Just a couple of days, though we’ll want to spend
some time in the forest. How long should we figure?”
the prince asked Arlen.
DARKWALKER ON MOONSHAE
53
readily dropped to the grass beside them as if he had
nowhere very pressing to go.
“I see that he learns quickly,” announced Pawldo,
nodding toward the great hound that lay, panting,
upon the sun-warmed grass.
“Aye. If only his master were half as adept,” muttered
Arlen to everyone’s amusement except Tristan’s.
Indeed, Canthus had adapted well to life at Caer
Corwell. In less than two weeks, the dog had
learned all the hand commands Daryth used to
direct him.
He ran faster and leaped higher than any dog the
prince, or Daryth, had ever seen. When Canthus
first joined the hounds of Tristan’s pack, there had
been a brief, snarling showdown with Angus. The
old dog had blustered and bristled, but sensibly
backed down as Canthus had pressed, almost
gently, against Angus’s skinny neck. Since that
moment, Canthus had been the leader.
“When will you take him on a true hunt?” asked
the halfling. “I hope you’re not going to wait until you
learn to shoot—a dog’s life is short!”
Again his companions had a laugh at his expense,
and Tristan felt his face redden. “Indeed not,” he
replied. “We’ve talked of an outing to Llaryth Forest
next week.”
“Splendid!” announced Pawldo. “I’m growing bored
of Lowhill—though Allian’s company is sweet, I
admit. I could use a stint in the forest. To the hunt!
When do we leave?”
“We’ll have to speak to my father,” Tristan replied.
“But soon enough, I’m sure.”
“Great!” Daryth exclaimed. “I’m eager to see a little
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look of disgust. Whatever the prince said now would
just inflame his father’s anger, he knew.
“Leave me!” growled the king, turning back to the
fire.
Suppressing an urge to scream and stomp his feet
at once again failing to impress his father, the Prince
of Corwell turned and walked, seething, from the
hall. As always, he immediately converted his anger
into a desire to rush out and have some fun, so he
hurried about his preparations for the hunt.
The companions left Caer Corwell before dawn,
which spread gray and oppressive from the east.
Bundled in woolen cloaks and furs, they led their
horses from the castle stable, mounting saddles and
supplies on the various steeds. Pawldo, who chose a
small, shaggy pony, had to chase his reluctant steed
around the courtyard before he could saddle it.
The sunrise brought little warmth, for low clouds
hung oppressively over the land. The peaks of the
Highlands were buried within the gray blanket, and
a penetrating mist hung heavily in the air. The party
rode southwest, along the road to Cantrev Dynnatt,
for most of the day.
They talked little. Tristan felt a personal gray
cloud hanging over his head, following his father’s
rebuke. In addition, he sensed a remote but forbidding
sense of menace in the gray day. For a
moment, he recalled the druid’s prophecy at the
spring festival.
Robyn, too, seemed lost in thought. Every so often,
she would start abruptly, and peer into the gray,
misty distance. As if expecting to see something.
Then she would slump again in the saddle, staring at
the gray mane before her.
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“Let’s plan for ten days. Can we be ready by tomorrow?”
“You’ll come with us, of course, Pawldo?” asked the
prince. When the halfling nodded happily, Tristan
said, “The five of us then!” The group started back
toward the castle. “We’ll take ten horses—I’ll get
them from the stables.”
“I’ll collect sleeping furs and a cookpot,” offered
Robyn.
Pawldo and Arlen agreed to pack some spare food,
in case the hunting was poor, and Daryth would
gather the hounds. By the time they reached the
castle, the expedition was planned, to depart at
dawn.
The group separated at the castle, each going to
begin preparations.
Tristan entered the great hall and found his father
sitting alone by the embers of a dying fire. He didn’t
look up as the prince entered. The shutters of the
long windows were open, but the room still seemed to
harbor a deep, disturbing chill.
“Father, we’re going on a hunt—to Llyrath Forest.”
In silent anger, Tristan cursed the nervousness that
always crept into his voice when he talked to his
father. “Arlen will accompany us. We’ll be gone ten
days—perhaps a fortnight.”
For a minute, the prince wondered if his father had
heard him, for the king displayed no reaction.
Finally, the king turned and regarded his son coldly.
“You might as well,” King Kendrick declared, his
voice heavy with scorn. “It beats wenching and
drinking—things I’ve heard from others that you do
so well. You are a disgrace to the crown!”
“What—?” Tristan stopped, cut off by his father’s
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man. “This is not a time to be abroad in Llyrath.”
Tristan started to laugh at the old man’s warning,
but Arlen held up a cautioning hand. “What do ye
mean? What have ye seen?”
“Seen? I’ve seen nothing, but I’ve heard tales. All
winter there’s been sheep disappearing in the place.
And more than one shepherd has gone in there alooking
for his flock, and never come out again!”
“Surely, old man, you talk like a woman!” objected
the prince. “There’ll be nothing in the forest to offer a
threat to a well-armed band of hunters!”
The old man shrugged, said “So you say, sir,” and
turned away. Robyn flashed Tristan an angry look,
and he felt a moment of guilt. He should not have
insulted the innkeeper, he knew. Why did this foolish
sense of bravado impel him to make himself look
foolish?
Arlen got up, stretched, and walked to his room.
Robyn swiftly followed, taking the single room they
had hired for her. Pawldo and Daryth, too, slipped
away quietly. They all felt the discomfort and general
gloominess of the day, renewed and strengthened by
the innkeeper’s warning.
At least the following day dawned clear, with the
promise of more warmth than the previous day had
offered. Again the party was off before sunrise, but
now they had no road to follow,
“This track should take us to the edge of Llaryth,”
announced Arlen, as he led the group along a narrow,
winding trail. The terrain was rocky and barren,
with small lakes and an occasional shepherd’s cottage
about the only features worthy of notice. Even
the cottages disappeared as they moved farther
southward. They finally camped in a sheltered niche,
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57
Arlen rode ahead, naturally assuming the role of
the prince’s bodyguard. He and Tristan accepted this
as normal, and the prince barely noticed the old soldier,
riding slowly along ahead of them. Only Daryth
and Pawldo seemed inclined to talk, and the two quietly
rode at the rear of the group, exchanging boasts
and stories. The dogs paced along, not interested in
running.
At dusk, they arrived at Dynnatt, a small farming
community, and found shelter at a cozy inn. In
the morning, they would strike southward into the
forest, and then turn east. The terrain was rugged,
and the tracks were few, so the companions realized
that it would probably be several days before
they again slept with a roof over their heads.
“Here, have the good table,” wheezed the old
innkeeper, hobbling toward a large oaken table
before a friendly fire. “Haven’t had many visitors this
spring—you’ll probably have the place to yourselves
tonight.”
Tristan had never visited this inn before, and
the innkeeper made no sign that he recognized the
prince. Clad as he was in plain hunting garb, he
felt no desire to call attention to his rank.
They sat down, grateful to escape the damp and
cool mist. After several tankards of ale and some
tender venison, the prince felt his spirits lifting.
“What business brings you through Dynnatt?”
grunted the proprietor, as he cleared away the dirty
dishes.
“A hunt!” declared Tristan, raising his mug. “The
deer in Llyrath Forest have had their last good
night’s sleep for the next week!”
“The hunting ground is not safe,” muttered the old
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Daryth’s desire remained unspoken.
“So would I,” laughed Tristan. “So would I.”
The next day brought them into the edge of the
wood, and here the hunt began. The hounds, pent up
by the slow pace of the party’s march, were loosed,
and soon disappeared among the widely spaced oak
trees of the pastoral forest. Urging their horses on,
the hunters pursued.
The eager hounds, following the vigorous lead of
Canthus, flushed birds from their covers, chased and
caught any hapless rabbits that lay in their path,
and sniffed the ground in search of larger game. The
dogs crisscrossed back and forth across the hunters’
path, silently intent on their search.
Only Angus showed signs of slowing. The old dog
kept the pace of the pack for several hours, but
finally slowed to an amble at the side of the riders.
Over the next few days, as the band worked its way
eastward, the archery skill of Arlen and Pawldo put a
dozen pheasants and quail into the game bags, but
no bigger game.
Finally, the hounds picked up the scent of a deer,
and bounded into the brush in pursuit. The prince
spurred his horse through a tangled thicket in pursuit,
his companions streaming along behind. The
hounds eventually brought the animal to bay
against a sheer rock wall. Daryth signaled the dogs
to halt, and Tristan took careful aim as the slender
creature stood, shivering with fear, against the cliff.
The prince’s arrow flew straight, piercing the creature’s
neck and swiftly killing it. Suddenly, all those
practice sessions were worthwhile.
“Bravo!” clapped Pawldo, trotting up to the prince.
“Nice shot,” commented Arlen, and Daryth nodded
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surrounded by high rocks that would keep away the
knife-edged bite of the wind.
Tristan forged into a thicket of scrub oak, seeking
firewood. He gathered several good limbs, and then
froze as he heard a rustling behind him. Slowly, he
turned, relaxing as Daryth emerged from a thicket,
also gathering wood.
“Tristan,” asked the houndmaster, “what is it about
this place? I don’t like the feel of it!”
“I don’t know,” responded the prince. “I’ve been
here many times, but never felt any danger . . . until
now. Bah! It must be our imaginations!”
“Indeed,” murmured Daryth, unconvinced.
“Of course, there might be something to that
innkeeper’s warning,” admitted the prince. “But it’s
more likely he was testing us, or playing some ruse.
We’ve seen nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Do you come here a lot?”
“Arlen used to bring Robyn and me camping here
when we were children. I guess it’s been five or six
years since we’ve been here, though. It’s always been
a pleasant place—very wild, not many people
around. I like that about Llyrath Forest.”
“You and Robyn,” Daryth asked, a little awkwardly.
“Are you . . . ?”
Ignoring a surge of jealousy, Tristan answered
thoughtfully. “I don’t know. Even though we’ve
known each other all our lives, Robyn excites me like
no other girl or woman. But there’s something about
her that keeps me at arm’s length. And—” He had to
laugh. “—there’s something about me that keeps her
at arm’s length.”
“She is a lovely woman—more beautiful than
anyone I have ever known. I should like to, well . . . ”
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Racing to a fallen trunk, Robyn pointed gleefully to a
long, shelflike fungus growing from the rotting wood.
Then, yards from her back, the bushes parted, and
the grizzled head of a monstrous boar emerged from
the undergrowth. Its glittering, blood-red eyes
peered angrily about, and it grunted in annoyance.
Tristan’s heart froze.
The boar’s tusks, nearly a foot long, gleamed
wickedly in the shadowy light. Robyn had turned as
the bushes rustled behind her, and the color drained
from her face as she beheld the angry creature,
barely thirty feet away.
And then, with a grunt, the boar charged.
* * * * *
The still, deep waters of Myrloch reflected the silvery
rays of a full moon. The sun had just set and the
moon risen, when the druids began to gather before
the great council ring. The reflected moonlight illuminated
the gathering, and a watcher could have
seen that the mood was somber, perhaps even fearful.
The great stone arches of the council ring sprang,
one after the other, from the surrounding shadows as
the moon rose higher. In the center of the ring, a pool
of bright water reflected the moonlight in all directions,
amplifying its brightness. As the moon
climbed, the watchers could see sparkling spots of
light, like vivid stars, following it. Common legend
held that they were the tears shed by the moon for
the sorrows of the present night.
By contrast, the gathering druids stood solemnly
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in agreement.
Robyn turned away as the deer fell—each time
the creature kicked, she flinched. Momentarily,
Tristan regretted her presence. Why had she
insisted on coming, anyway? She took something
from the fun . . .
As he stripped and cleaned the kill, his annoyance
lifted, and he remembered that Robyn had wished
to seek out some fungus or something in the forest.
He resolved to give her the opportunity to do so.
They camped that night near a small, clear lake
among a grove of lofty pine trees. The ground was
cushioned with a thick layer of needles, and firewood
was plentiful, so they had a comfortable camp
and got a good night’s rest. Still, Robyn seemed
quiet and depressed that night, and again the following
morning.
“Perhaps we should rest here for another day or
two,” suggested the prince as the party breakfasted
on bread and cheese. “Robyn could then have a
chance to collect some of her fungi, and we can
explore this lake a bit.”
“It is indeed a beautiful spot,” agreed Arlen, looking
around as if for the first time. Low, forested
ridges, perfectly reflected in the still morning water,
surrounded the lake.
They almost forgot the warnings of the druids and
the innkeeper in the pleasant passing of the bright
day. Yet, even as they enjoyed watching the girl in
her fungus hunt, something in the quiet, almost
abandoned forest, something vaguely frightening,
impinged on their awareness.
They were all moving in close proximity when
Robyn cried, “There!” and leaped to the ground.
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druid from Llyrath. She whose realm included the
woodlands of northern Gwynneth did not greet her
peer from the south, but all who watched knew that
the time for the council drew near.
Only the Great Druid of Gwynneth still remained
absent. The moon climbed higher, its silvery beams
casting clear shadows across the great ring. All of the
arches now stood out clearly. Each was made from
the positioning of three massive stones. Two served
as pillars, while the third rested across the tops of
the other two. There were twelve of these arches in
the outer ring.
In the center of the circle, the Moonwell glistened
with a light all its own. Around the Moonwell stood
eight pillars of stone, grouped in four pairs. None of
the druids approached the center, but in the bright
moonlight, perhaps fifty of them were visible gathered
around the perimeter of the ring.
Suddenly the waters of the Moonwell parted with a
soft plop, and a tiny creature emerged from the silvery
liquid. With some surprise, the druids watched
a small frog cross the ground to the space between
one pair of pillars in the center of the ring. In a
sudden instant the frog was gone and Genna Moonsinger,
Great Druid of Gwynneth, stood before the
assembly.
As Genna appeared in her normal guise, so did the
moon reach its zenith. Its brilliant light spilled
between the two pillars and illuminated the Great
Druid for all the rest to see.
Genna Moonsinger looked older, and tired, but she
still bore the understanding smile and look of benign
patience that had won her this honored post against
the competition of more vigorous, but less wise,
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among the shadows at the perimeter of the ring, quietly
waiting. They did not talk to one another, nor did
their attention waver from the Moonwell to acknowledge
new arrivals. Their number continued to grow,
as more and more of the dark-robed figures emerged
from the towering pines that ringed Myrloch.
Each wore a robe of brown or dark green, sometimes
mottled with a forested pattern. These Ffolk
were men and women of both strength and gentleness.
Their steps did not disturb the branches and twigs
along the ground, nor did their gazes frighten the
smallest of woodland creatures. Yet, as a group, they
harbored great might indeed.
The druid known as Trahern of Oakvale hobbled
into the clearing, looking nervously about. He
remained far from any of the other druids, his hands
clenched together in the sleeves of his robe. He
sneaked glances at the nearest druids and sneered
viciously, baring his cracked and bleeding lips. How
much he hated them—hated them all!
Licking his lips, he made an effort to keep his body
still. It would not do to attract attention to himself.
Pulling his deep hood farther down over his face,
Trahern waited for the council to begin.
Some of the druids, those who had to travel far, or
simply wanted to display their great powers, arrived
more theatrically. An owl settled to the ground
between two of the great arches. Its shape shimmered
and changed into that of a proud, tall man:
Quinn Moonwane, master of the forest realm of
Llyrath. A hawk dropped suddenly from the sky to
land beside Quinn, and quickly changed to human
form. Now Isolde of Winterglen stood beside the
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her to continue.
“The children of the goddess have been awakened.”
This statement drew a few low mutters of astonishment
from the gathering, for none but the oldest
of the druids recalled a time when the goddess had
been forced to call upon her children. The news was
heartening, for the children of the goddess—the
Leviathan, the Unicorn, and the Pack—were potent
allies indeed.
“Yet even this step will not be sufficient to restore
the Balance!” Genna’s voice took on a note of firmness.
“The Firbolgs are abroad, and their activities
threaten the Balance on a very direct level.
“The rest of my dream is not clear to me. I can only
share these images: somehow, darkness has emerged
from light, and now this darkness walks abroad in
the land. It is this darkness, whatever its nature,
that the Mother fears the most.
“Armies shall gather, and blood will be shed. Very
possibly. Myrloch Vale itself will be violated. Should
that happen, those of you who are entrusted with the
vale’s protection are to hinder and slow the passage
of the desecrating force, without risking yourselves
or your groves. Do not use the animals, if you can
possibly avoid it.”
Genna paused again, turning a full circle to look at
each of her druids. Satisfied, she spoke again,
“Remember that the armies, though potent, are not
the most dangerous enemy of the Earthmother.
Learn all you can about the nature of any strange
occurrences in the lands under your care. Whatever
the nature of the “darkness from light,” we must
learn more about it. I fear that it is the most dire
threat of all to the Balance.
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druids. She slowly turned, giving all present the benefit
of that smile, and as she did so the tension that
had been building in the ring seemed to lighten, if it
did not vanish altogether.
The rays of the full moon highlighted the wrinkles
in the Great Druid’s aged face but could not overcome
the lively sparkle of her eyes. Her body was
rounded and stocky, but she carried herself with
great dignity. She looked as if the many years of her
life had not worn and weakened her, but instead had
weathered and strengthened her. The polished oaken
staff she held before her gleamed smoothly. Decades
of use had worn its surface to a golden sheen.
All eyes in the council rested upon her, but Genna
paused lengthily before she spoke. The wind stilled,
and the great forest was strangely silent.
“My brothers and sisters,” the Great Druid began.
Her voice was soft and musical, yet carried the
weight of majesty. The power was well concealed, and
her tone seemed wistful.
“The Mother has spoken to me,” Genna continued.
The druids understood that this meant the Great
Druid had had a prophetic dream. “Her next sleep
may be her last. Her power wanes grievously, and the
instruments of her destruction gather even before
the snow has melted from the land.”
She turned a slow circle, looking at each of the
druids gathered before her. For a moment she
paused, wondering if she saw a flash of unnatural
light near the rear of the group. Then, her eyes
moved on.
Trahern of Oakvale sighed, shivering with tension,
and hid his face more deeply within his hood.
Somberly the druids regarded Genna, waiting for
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and impetuous—he could make disastrous mistakes.”
“Of course he could,” agreed Genna cheerfully. “In
fact, having met the lad, I’ll say that I’m certain he
will make mistakes, probably disastrously. But he is
greatly steadied by the girl. And, indeed, do we have
any other choice?”
“Yes, the girl,” ansarkable,
indeed. She carries great potential within her,
as you had guessed.”
Genna smiled discreetly, but made no comment.
Her throat tightened, and moisture crept unbidden
to her eyes as she thought of the black-haired
maiden. Clearing her throat gruffly, she regarded
every one of the gathered druids with her bright,
sparkling gaze, Her look seemed to spread peace
throughout the group.
“May the goddess protect you!”
Genna turned and vanished, although not entirely.
Those who watched very closely saw a small, feathered
shape dart across the surface of the Moonwell.
The swallow flew into the night and quickly disappeared.
The druids turned and moved away from the council
ring as silently as they had arrived. Soon, all but
one had vanished into the surrounding darkness.
That one stood still, staring at the Moonwell, lost in
deep thought.
Trahern of Oakvale looked much as he had a few
days earlier. Only his eyes were different. They did
not glow with vitality, but instead, seemed to glimmer
with a hot, angry light. The folds of his brown
hood kept his face in shadow, but one who looked
within the shadow might think he looked into the
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“Now,” Genna continued, her tone mellowing
slightly, “what news from the far ends of Gwynneth?”
Quinn Moonwane, master of Llyrath Forest,
stepped forward and addressed the gathering. “Your
warning fits with tidings of late in Llyrath. That
great forest has felt the trod of invading footsteps
already. Although I have not discovered the nature
of this invasion, I now suspect the Firbolgs.”
“And I have seen the armies gathering!” announced
Isolde of Winterglen, stepping to Quinn’s side. Her
domain covered the vast tract of forest over northern
Gwynneth. This forest separated the fortresses of
northmen clans that had long ago conquered the
northern reaches of Gwynneth.
“The northmen march together, armed heavily,
singing songs of war.” Isolde’s voice did not conceal
the scorn with which she regarded the northmen.
“They gathered at their ports, a great and warlike
throng. Then, several days ago, they boarded their
ships and sailed. Their destination I do not know; but
the number of their ships was greater than I have
yet seen.”
“Thank you,” acknowledged the Great Druid. The
soothing tones of her voice calmed the rising tide of
fear that Isolde’s words had triggered.
“My brothers, my sisters,”Genna continued, still
calming and soothing with her voice. “Our vigilance
must be constant. Our enemies are strong, but so are
our friends. Oh yes,” she added in afterthought, “As
in times past when the Balance has been severely
strained, a hero will arise from among the Ffolk—a
hero who is already a prince.”
“This current prince,” grunted Quinn, “is young
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confusion. Suddenly, he sat upright, the movement
bringing an involuntary groan as his muscles cried
out in protest. With a cry, he rolled off the pallet
onto the floor.
Trying to get up, he found himself crippled. His
legs flailed uselessly at the floor. He tried to grasp a
handhold to pull himself up, but his fingers would
not work. Howling in anguish, he thrashed across
the floor, finally rolling to a stop in a pool of milky
moonlight pouring through his single window.
The light seemed to soothe him, yet it beckoned
him at the same time. The full moon, a perfect circle
of brightness, gazed through the window, and he
began to understand his helplessness. The tears of
the moon—the glittering chain of bright stars that
followed the moon through the sky—blinked cheerily,
seeming to mock his plight.
His skin cracked away from his arms and face, but
the red wound quickly disappeared beneath a rough
coat of brown fur. Sharp, pointed fangs erupted from
his gums, and his face distorted in terrible pain. He
tried to rub his eyes with his hands, but those
appendages had disappeared, to be replaced with
padded paws, tipped with sharp, wickedly curving
claws.
And as the silvery rays stroked the guard’s
twisted and aching body, Erian completed his transformation.
* * * * *
The Pack awakened to the cold, white glare of the
full moon. Gray and shaggy forms emerged from a
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embers of a low fire, for such were the eyes of Kazgoroth.
Now, after listening to Genna, and through her the
goddess, Trahern understood the pattern that
unfolded before him. With his help, the Balance
would unravel, leaving Gwynneth in chaos and
despair.
Now Trahern the druid, newly the spawn of Kazgoroth,
understood the role he would play in the
plan.
* * * * *
The rays of the full moon illuminated the sleeping
village of Corwell, which was gathered around
its protecting castle on the shores of Corwell Firth.
A few guards strolled listlessly about the battlements
of Caer Corwell or slept at their posts. The
village was quiet, as the taverns had closed for the
night, and all decent Ffolk were sound asleep.
Erian the guard paced restlessly back and forth
in his tiny hut near the castle. Since the night of
the spring festival, he had been restless and edgy—
often, he grew physically sick. A horse clopped
along the street outside, and he turned to the door,
an audible snarl curling his lip. He had been
unhappy and fearful for the entire month, but
never had he felt as restless as now. White moonbeams
spilled through the window, and he unconsciously
turned his face upward, allowing the cold
light of the full moon to wash over him.
Finally, he lay on a straw pallet, but he could not
sleep. His body ached, and his mind reeled with
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4
BLOODLETTING
THE BOAR’S STOCKY head bent forward so that the
deadly tusks arrowed straight at Robyn as she
knelt by the fungus. With impossible speed, the
beast’s stubby legs pounded the ground in a blur of
acceleration.
Tristan, his stomach churning in fear, spurred his
horse into a swift turn toward the boar. Pawldo,
Arlen, and Daryth all whirled toward the attack, but
they were farther away than the prince.
The hounds, too, were distant. Canthus had led the
pack around the shore of the lake, and though the
dogs had turned at the sound of the boar’s charge,
they were still far away.
Except Angus.
The old hound, ambling as always at Tristan’s side,
sprang toward the boar with fangs bared. Deep
snarls rolled from his chest as he leaped between
Robyn and the charging beast. The hound’s teeth
turned and sank into the boar’s ear. At the same
time, those merciless tusks tore through the dog’s
flank and deep into its body.
Red blood spurted from the grievous wounds, and
the old dog grunted with a hollow, wet sound. His
71
hundred dens, shaking the weariness of a long hibernation
from stiffened muscles and sleep-clouded
brains.
A large male raised his voice to the moon in a long,
ululating howl. Others joined in, first a few, but then
hundreds. As one creature, the Pack raised its voice to
the heavens, singing the praises of the goddess.
And then a soft breeze carried to the large male the
scent of a stag, somewhere not far away in the misty
night. Patches of fog drifted among the towering
pines, but bright moonlight illuminated the clearings
and the high places as the wolf searched for the
source of the scent.
Others picked up the spoor, smelling blood, and
meat, and fear. The baying of the Pack dropped lower,
and took on a deeper tone of menace. Slowly, like gray
ghosts, the wolves began to lope through the forest,
gaining speed as alertness returned. The stag turned
fear-maddened eyes toward its deadly pursuers, and
then fled—a flight that could have only one consequence,
as the Pack spread out and began to close
upon its prey.
Once again, after a century of sleep, the mighty
wolves of the Pack sang to their prey. The song was
ancient and piercingly beautiful. It was a song of the
glory of the goddess, and of the might of her children.
But, above all, it was a song of death.
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over them, and the bloody sword wound became
matted with dirt and pine needles as the boar staggered
to its feet, grunting angrily and ferociously
stabbing its tusks into Canthus.
The boar’s powerful back legs tensed, and its
stocky neck twisted to bring its tusks against Canthus’s
long flank, but the hound was too shrewd.
Turning with his adversary, the dog clamped his
powerful jaws onto the boar’s snout, above the tusks.
The beast bucked and squealed frantically but could
not dislodge its attacker’s grim hold.
Daryth, his mount galloping across the rocky
lakeshore, reached the fight, and reined in with a
grim smile of pleasure.
“Kill him, great one,” he said quietly, watching the
crushing effect of Canthus’s bite.
In moments the rest of the hounds had joined Canthus.
The killing of the boar was not pretty. Canthus
retained his grip on the beast’s snout while the other
dogs tore at its flanks, throat, and belly. For a full
minute the creature stood, invisible under the
savage pack, but finally loss of blood set it squatting,
and then lying, to the ground.
Tristan sprang from his horse and raced to the
limp body of Angus. The old hound looked at him
once, and flopped his tail weakly in recognition. Then
the brown eyes, already grown dull, closed forever.
For a moment, the prince remembered a hundred
carefree outings, Angus bounding eagerly at his side,
his own childhood enthusiasm bubbling. Then he ran
to grasp Robyn as she swung by her hands. But she
let go of the branch before he reached her, and cried
out as her gored leg collapsed. Tristan caught her as
she tumbled to the ground, and helped her sit on the
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lungs pierced by the tusks, Angus spent his dying
strength tearing the ear from the boar’s head.
Robyn sprang to her feet as Angus leaped, desperately
seeking escape. A bough from a large pine hung
several feet overhead. She jumped, barely grasping
the limb, and swung her legs upward. At the same
time, the boar tossed Angus’s body aside and lunged
at his original victim. A gore-streaked tusk grazed
Robyn’s calf, drawing a cry of pain.
His lance sat, useless, back at camp, so Tristan was
forced to attack the boar with his sword. Slashing
downward, his blade sank deep into the animal’s
shoulder, but the wound seemed only to inflame the
boar’s raging bloodlust.
Tristan’s horse, whinnying with fear, danced away
from the lunging boar. As he broke away from the
beast, the prince turned and saw two arrows thunk
solidly into the shaggy flank. Arlen and Pawdo were
already nocking their second arrows.
The boar turned from its additional wounds, and
ducked its head as if to gore an imaginary foe, Confused,
it swung its bloodshot gaze from Tristan to the
archers, and back again. Lowering its head, it lunged
toward the prince. Blood ran luridly across one flank
from the gash inflicted by Tristan’s sword. On the
opposite side, the two arrows were buried deep in the
boar’s flank. The animal grunted sharply, but showed
no signs of weakening.
Suddenly a brown form streaked across the ground
and hurtled itself into the combat. Canthus, far outdistancing
the other hounds to reach the fight, struck
the boar’s flank. The force of the great hound’s
charge sent the creature tumbling across the ground.
The arrows snapped off as the boar’s weight crashed
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horse among the large rocks of the shore toward the
eagerly waiting pack of hounds. He reached Canthus
and looked down.
“I think you’d better come over here,” he called.
“I’ve never seen anything like this before!”
The others found Daryth standing upon a low, flat
rock. Around him spread the shallow waters of the
lake in all directions, except at the base of the rock.
There, the water was low enough to reveal a small
expanse of mud, in the middle of which was a footprint.
The foot that had made the print was wearing a
heavy boot, judging by the depth of the mark, with a
smooth leather sole. Cleats protruded from the sole
at irregular intervals, and the whole boot showed
signs of long wear. None of this made the track
exceptional, however, for the boot could have
belonged to any common woodsman or shepherd—if
these were its only features.
But the print was fully two feet long.
* * * * *
Erian awakened in terrible pain. His shoulders
and head pounded with agony, and his body was
numb from the waist down. He slowly realized that
he was naked and lying outdoors.
Lifting his throbbing head, he looked around himself
in confusion. He lay upon the muddy bank of a
shallow stream. In fact, his lower half was immersed
in the chill waters, and this cold had benumbed him.
Slowly, with tremendous effort, the big man pulled
himself from the water and lay, shivering, in the mud
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soft cushion of pine needles.
“I’m fine,” she said, pulling her shoulders away
from his arm. The prince felt her body shaking, and
heard a quaver in her voice, but he stood up and let
her go. She looked up at him, gratitude in her eyes,
and then sorrow as she looked at Angus.
Arlen stepped toward them, roughly clearing his
throat. “Do not grieve for him—he has died a warrior’s
death. He would have had it no other way.”
They erected a small cairn near the shore of the
lake, and Robyn muttered a low prayer for the dog’s
spirit.
“Let’s tend to the game,” grunted Arlen.
“Sure,” agreed the prince. He turned, with relief,
from the cairn and looked at Daryth. “How are the
other dogs?”
“Corwyss has a nasty gash on the side, but she’ll be
all right. The rest are fine.”
The prince bent over the ravaged corpse of the
boar, drawing his keen hunting blade and sliding
the steel edge through the torn remnants of the
boar’s neck. As he cut down, across the scrawny
belly, Arlen began to scoop a pit in the earth for the
entrails.
The little group moved from the burial scene back
toward their camp. Canthus and the rest of the pack
raced around the far shore of the lake as the riders
picked their way along the smoother near shore. The
dogs had almost rejoined them on the other side
when Canthus stopped with a howl. Barking furiously,
he refused to come any further. Instead, his
attention was directed toward something on the
ground, near the shore of the lake.
“I’ll have a look,” volunteered Daryth, leading his
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the town to his own cottage. The door to his home
stood open, smashed outward with enough force to
break the latch.
Confused, and very frightened, Erian slipped
inside and closed the door.
* * * * *
“What could have made such a footprint?”
demanded Daryth, staring at the massive track.
“Firbolg,” muttered Arlen.
Not wanting to alarm Robyn, Tristan said calmly,
“Surely it would be very far from home.”
“Where do they normally live?” asked the Calishite.
“Usually they stay in Myrloch Vale, north of the
kingdom,” explained the prince. “I wonder what one
would be doing this far south?”
“This explains a lot!” Pawldo interjected. “The
sheep disappearing—everybody nervous about something.”
“Yes, but it raises more questions than it answers.
What could the Firbolg be after in Llyrath Forest?”
“They move, sometimes,” explained Pawldo, with
unusual solemnity. “At least, that’s what the old legends
say.” As a halfling, Pawldo’s roots were much
closer to the original faerie inhabitants of the isles—
roots he shared with the Llewyrr, and the Firbolg.
“The Firbolg are held in Myrloch Vale by the firm
hand of the goddess, and when her power wanes, the
Firbolg can leave the vale. It is,” Pawldo concluded
needlessly, “a very bad sign.”
“We must warn the king,” declared Arlen. “We shall
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of the bank. A cluster of tree roots and enclosing
bushes gave him shelter. He struggled to remember
how he had come here, but his mind furnished him
no explanation.
He saw that it was after dawn, yet the whole night
had vanished from his memory, leaving a gaping,
dark hole. What had happened to him?
Grunting heavily, Erian twisted himself into a sitting
position and looked around. The stream flowed
from his right to his left, he observed. He heard the
caw of a gull, and smelled the salt air of the sea, so he
knew that he lay close to the coast. The stream was
bordered by a thicket of bushes and small trees, but
the land beyond seemed open and rolling.
Looking down, Erian noticed without surprise that
he was covered with blood. The mud and the water
streaked the crimson fluid into a garish pattern
across his body. He did not seem to be wounded, so
obviously the blood had come from something, or
someone else.
Lurching to his feet, Erian caught sight of Caer
Corwell, and knew now that this was Corlyth Creek,
which entered the sea just north of the town. Slowly,
keeping to the concealment of the undergrowth
around the stream, he started staggering toward
Corwell.
His mind flashed through bits and pieces of the
previous night: the full moon illuminating his cottage,
and summoning him, with its cold and unblinking
glare. He could remember nothing after that.
The sun had just cleared the peaks of the Highlands,
and its harsh light cast long, clear shadows in
the crystal morning air. Few villagers were about yet,
so Erian was able to slip through the back streets of
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was smooth and flawless, the head of hard steel
razor-sharp.
As the riders mounted, the hounds gathered
eagerly, as if they, too, could scent battle. Daryth indicated
the spoor, then he gestured sharply downward
as the hounds were about to take up the cry, and the
canine jaws snapped silently shut. Quietly, as
ordered by the houndmaster, the dogs took up the
spoor of the Firbolg.
“How old is the sign?” Tristan asked Robyn, whose
knowledge of the wild included tracking animals.
“Can you tell?”
“No more than a day,” she estimated. They started
after the monsters, and for a few hours had no difficulty
following the spoor. Huge footprints, careless
destruction of plants, and, occasionally, offal clearly
marked the path of the Firbolgs.
Then the trail crossed a region of smooth rock, and
the keen noses of the hounds became the only guide.
Shortly, the Firbolgs had again entered woodlands,
and the trail grew plain.
For two days the companions rode along the giants’
trail, stopping only for brief rests. They pursued long
into the night, under the brilliant light of the full
moon.
Shortly after they left the lakeshore, the trail
dropped into a stream bed, and the dogs lost the
scent. It was Robyn who noticed, a hundred paces
upstream, the scuffed bark of a pine tree, indicating
where the monsters had climbed from the stream.
Then, later, as a small storm washed out a portion of
the spoor, it was Robyn again who saw the faint
impressions in the sodden grass that indicated the
passage of heavy bodies. It was as if the ground itself
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return to the castle at once.”
“Not yet,”argued the prince, to whom the Firbolg
seemed like a remote and adventurous challenge.
“We should follow these tracks, find out if there’s
more than one, and what they are doing here.”
Arlen started to argue, but saw the set of Tristan’s
jaw and knew that the prince would not change his
mind. “All right,” he grunted. “But one of us must ride
back with the lass.”
“Forget that idea!” snapped Robyn. “I’m coming
with you!” Tristan could not suppress a smile at
Arlen’s chagrin.As in childhood, the two of them usually
managed to manipulate the old warrior into
doing what they wanted.
“Then ye’ll all do as you’re told,” grunted Arlen.
“We’ll move slowly and quietly—if yer seen, yer lives
won’t be worth a copper piece!”
Daryth had circled the group as they talked, and
now called from a short distance away. “Here! I’ve
found another track—and here’s another. They went
this way!”
Daryth pointed to the southeast, toward a low
notch in the rolling terrain of the forest. The land
climbed steeply to the south, toward a crest of rock
that ran for dozens of miles, high above the surrounding
pine, oak, and aspens. Among the ridges
nestled numerous swales and valleys, containing
hundreds of lakes and many small, isolated pockets
of thick woods.
The companions swiftly gathered their gear and
scattered any signs of their camp. Tristan felt a
thrill in anticipation of battle. He stroked the hilt of
the longsword hanging at his side, and examined
the mounting of his lance. The thin wooden shaft
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The Firbolg, so far from Myrloch. And the prophecy of
the druids—a summer of peril, an autumn of tragedy.
I can’t get that out of my mind.”
The prince smiled, reassuringly he hoped. “I’m
sure these are just a few renegades out on some
kind of raid. As soon as we find them out, and get
home, Father’ll send out a band of men-at-arms,
and that will be that!” For a moment, the prince
thought of that war party. He wanted desperately to
be a part of it, but would his father let him?
“Remember what Pawldo said a few days ago?” persisted
Robyn, still worried. She looked before them,
at their companions. “Could he be right about the
power of the goddess waning? What if it’s true, and
the evil creatures take over Gwynneth?”
Tristan turned his gaze to the ground. He groped
for words that would calm Robyn’s fears, but instead
found his own apprehensions growing.
“They can’t be more than a few hours ahead of us
now,” observed Robyn, as they climbed among a
series of rocky knobs. “We must be gaining on them
fast.”
Toward evening of the second day of their pursuit,
the trail followed the crest of a long, winding ridge.
The rocky spur was the backbone of the Llaryth
Forest, although the nearest trees were a thousand
feet below the crest. The path was steep, with sheer
precipices commonly dropping to one side or
another. In places, the slopes dropped away steeply
to both sides, offering a craggy path only a few feet
wide.
“This is madness!” Arlen finally exclaimed.“We can
be seen for miles! I cannot allow us to proceed any
farther.”
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spoke to her, revealing hidden knowledge of those
who had passed.
“There seem to be a dozen or more of them,” she
observed, and Tristan and the others grew silent for
a moment. The almost invisible path she followed led
them deep into the Llyrath Highlands—the rugged
crest of the forest where outcrops of stone became as
common as the clumps of pine and oak in the forest’s
lower reaches.
Tristan rode alert and ready for action. The sight of
the giants’ tracks inflamed him with excitement.
Over and over, he pictured one of the ugly creatures
before him, cowering before the deadly thrust of his
lance. Then he saw himself, longsword raised, bobbing
and ducking with dashing calm through the
pitch of battle.
Riding before his prince, Arlen was watchful, leading
the party as long as the spoor was visible. Behind
him paced the hounds, followed by Daryth and
Pawldo.
Tristan walked his horse slowly beside Robyn, at
the rear of the party. She had borrowed his knife, and
now finished carving a stout oaken cudgel. Her
strong hands held the staff firmly as she inspected it
for rough spots.
“I don’t think it’ll be much use against Firbolgs,”
she admitted. “But it makes me feel a little better to
have it.”
“We’ll see that you don’t need to use it,” Tristan
boasted, enjoying the role of the cavalier adventurer.
“How far ahead are they?” he asked. “Can you tell?”
“I don’t know,” replied Robyn, giving him a sideways
look. He thought he saw an emotion strange to
her eyes—was it fear? “Tristan, what can it mean?
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Even as the companions turned, the Firbolgs
hurled the rocks at the party. The missiles fell short,
but clattered and sparked with real menace as they
shattered on the rocky ground.
“Quick! Through the notch!” cried Tristan, as the
Firbolgs burst into a run.
“Hold!” barked Arlen. “Look before you!”
Tristan looked ahead through the narrow mountain
gap to the long slope on the other side and the
forest a mile away. From the trees emerged a dozen
or more Firbolgs, all loping steadily toward the
notch. They were trapped!
For a moment, Tristan froze in panic, his mind
groping helplessly for a plan. The Firbolgs to the rear
blocked their retreat, and those before them offered
certain death.
“My prince, we must attack—there!” called Arlen,
speaking firmly and pointing. The Firbolgs behind
them had split into two pairs. The pair on the left
had moved apart, the two Firbolgs lumbering forward
with a wide gap between them.
Instantly, Tristan saw the wisdom of the move.
“Let’s go!” he called, kicking the flanks of his
mount.
“Follow!” cried Arlen to the others as his own steed
leaped forward to gallop beside Tristan’s. The pair
leveled their lances and charged toward the two Firbolgs
to the left. The lances were formidable weapons
when coupled with the weight of a charging horse,
and Tristan allowed himself a flash of optimism. The
baying hounds sang behind him, and a clattering of
hooves informed him of the reassuring presence of
his companions.
The Firbolgs immediately anticipated their plan.
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“We must find out what their purpose is!” argued
Tristan.
“If they haven’t spied us by now, they’re even stupider
than I think they are! We’re walking into an
ambush, I tell you!”
“Then we’ll just have to be more careful,”
announced Tristan, fondling the haft of his lance.
“We’ll be ready if they find us!” Secretly, he hoped
they would find the Firbolgs. He yearned to fight one
of the brutes.
Finally the path dropped between a number of
rocky peaks, and the party relaxed. At least they
could not be observed as easily as upon the exposed
ridge. They could see ahead of them to where the
trail led through a narrow notch between two small
mountains, and beyond into a region of tall pines and
open meadows.
Arlen scouted the notch, seeking safe passage,
while the others waited tensely behind him. A clattering
of rock to their rear caught Robyn’s attention,
and she turned.
“Firbolgs!” she cried in alarm, although her voice
was steady. “They’re coming.”
Whirling, the others saw four of the huge, ugly
creatures approaching from a clump of rock that they
had passed minutes earlier. The gross figures loomed
eight or nine feet tall. Each had a headful of black,
shaggy hair and a receding forehead that sloped
down to a large nose. They had surprisingly small
chins, covered in scraggly and ill-tended beards.
Each wore a leather tunic marred by rips, tears, and
stains. They carried clubs the size of small tree
trunks and hefted large rocks in their massive
hands.
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Firbolg, while Tristan, moaning, struggled to a sitting
position. Bellowing ferociously, the Firbolg that
had struck them down turned to confront the riders,
ignoring the hounds that raced toward its back.
Robyn stared breathlessly at the monster, her eyes
wide and her heart pounding. The heavy cudgel she
had carved seemed like a pathetic stick in her hand.
Pawldo raised his bow and sent an arrow darting
into the Firbolg’s chest, but the creature plucked it
free and threw it to the ground as it would a small
thorn.
Just then the hounds struck the Firbolg from
behind like an onrushing landslide. As the monster
stumbled and turned back to face this new attack,
Arlen urged his horse forward. Striking from behind,
he forced his blade deep into the enemy’s back,
hoping to cut into a vital organ. Another arrow from
Pawldo flew over the warrior’s head, striking the Firbolg
in the back of its neck.
The monster’s club smashed into one of the dogs,
killing the hound instantly, but the weight of the
others, plus the damage of the sword wound, forced
the Firbolg to its knees. Instantly the dogs dragged it
to the ground, biting and tearing in a frenzy of bloodlust.
Several feet away, Tristan attempted to climb to
his feet, but the world began to spin madly and he
had to sit back down. Shaking his head to clear it, he
looked around.
A bellow of rage caused him to look over his shoulder,
and his stomach knotted with terror. Another
Firbolg, one they had not seen before, was crashing
through the enclosing pines only a few yards away.
The monster’s club was held high, and its bloodshot
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The pair to the right began closing toward their companions,
but they were still several hundred yards
away. Then, as he and Arlen thundered downhill at
breathtaking speed, the two Firbolgs before them
stopped, and each grabbed a rock the size of a large
melon. As the lancers bore down, the monsters threw
the jagged rocks. The first one sailed over Arlen’s
head and crashed harmlessly among the rocks. The
second, however, smashed the right foreleg of Tristan’s
horse, dropping the poor animal instantly and
sending the prince flying from the saddle. The horse
shrieked in pain as it collapsed, bouncing and rolling
along the ground for some distance before finally
breaking its neck and lying still.
The prince managed to tuck his head before he
landed, but he crashed into a rocky patch of ground
with enough force to stun him.
Arlen’s charge struck the second Firbolg with brute
force. The point of his lance sheared through the
monster’s chest and erupted from its back in a
shower of blood. As the charge carried him past, the
warrior dropped the lance in order to retain his seat,
but he instantly drew his sword and looked about.
The Firbolg behind him collapsed, but the one that
had struck down Tristan faced the other riders with
upraised club. Arlen saw Daryth edge his mount
between the Firbolg and Robyn, and he saw the Calishite’s
sword lash out and cut the Firbolg’s hip. At
the same time, the club smashed down, striking
Daryth on the shoulder and knocking him headlong
from the saddle.
In an instant, Pawldo and Robyn thundered past
the Firbolg, but the pair quickly reined in their
horses and turned. Daryth lay motionless near the
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to the ground, helping him to stand.
“How . . . ?” he gasped.
“I don’t know!” she responded, turning to stare at
the imprisoned Firbolg. The monster struggled to
free itself, but was clasped tight by the knotted limbs
and branches.
Tristan grasped the pommel of Robyn’s saddle, but
could not lift himself. He shook his head, groaning as
the pounding in it grew infinitely worse.
Daryth still lay motionless, but the prince could see
no blood on him. Little Pawldo was rapidly releasing
arrows with enthusiasm and precision into the other
two Firbolgs who were fast approaching. Several
arrows sprouted from the chest of one, but did little
more than annoy the creature.
Tristan glanced toward the notch and was
relieved to see that the other Firbolgs had not
arrived, though he knew that they would reach the
narrow pass soon.
Arlen, Tristan saw, stood over the motionless form
of the Firbolg he and the dogs had just slain. The
old warrior studied the approach of the pair.
“Fly, my prince!” he called to Tristan, running in
his direction. Robyn came up behind him and boosted
Tristan into the saddle of her own mount.
“Go! You got us into this—now don’t make it
worse!” Arlen’s visage was fierce.
Tristan, his control returned, saw a look of frantic
appeal in Robyn’s eyes.Without consideration for his
own safety, he urged the mount toward the motionless
figure of Daryth.
“Damn!” grunted Arlen, as he strode forward to
face the two advancing Firbolgs. The pair closed
upon the warrior, wicked grins distorting their
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eyes glimmered with malice.
Tristan quickly saw that his companions were all
occupied and too far away to intervene. So, praying
for the best, he groped for his sword. But the dizziness
kept him from grasping his weapon. The Firbolg,
sensing the vulnerability of his enemy, crept
forward slowly, his club raised, ready to smash the
prince into the ground. Through the haze in his
vision, Tristan vaguely saw that the weapon was
studded with rusty spikes. He closed his eyes to
block out the sight, hoping it might go away.
“Stop!” Robyn’s cry pierced the air like the clarion
call of a battle horn.
Something glimmered and shook along the ground,
or was it simply imagination? The prince was not certain,
but it looked as if the ground itself had begun to
throb. The lunging Firbolg paused, confusion and
fear at the strange happening clouding its gaze.
Wide-eyed, Tristan saw the trees and bushes
around the Firbolg bend fantastically, reaching for
the monster and closing hard curls of wood around
its huge limbs. The creature uttered a bellow of frustration,
and perhaps fear, as in moments the supple
limbs held the creature fast.
The pine boughs and sapling trunks wrapped the
Firbolg’s limbs tightly. The tip of a small pine encircled
the giant’s neck three or four times. The entire
might of the earth was behind the grasping wood, so
the creature could barely squirm.
Robyn gasped and clapped a hand to her mouth,
but then spurred her horse and galloped toward the
prince, whose own limbs still refused to cooperate.
He stared, in amazement, looking from Firbolg to
Robyn and back. She reined in beside him and leaped
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Suddenly a black shadow flashed across the
prince’s vision. A feathered whirlwind struck the Firbolg
full in the face, tearing with sharp talons and
curved beak. Before the monster could react, the
shadow broke away and climbed into the air. Astonished,
the prince saw that a huge black falcon had
joined the fight.
And then, from nowhere, a sound like the whooshing
of a strong wind split the air over the prince’s
head, and a red arrow slashed toward the Firbolg to
thunk solidly into its throat. Giving a gurgling gasp
the monster stumbled, clutching at the thick shaft
protruding from its throat.Without another sound, it
toppled forward, thudding heavily to the ground at
Tristan’s feet.
* * * * *
The mistletoe rustled, spreading apart to allow the
great white head to emerge. The head shook, and a
satiny mane fluttered through the air and came to
rest upon the snowy neck. The branches of mistletoe
snapped as the rest of the powerful body emerged
from the shady bower.
Hooves, shanked with fur also white as snow,
stepped gingerly among the wildflowers, crushing
none, as the creature walked to the nearby pool. Bending
his neck downward until the long horn broke the
surface into a series of ripples, the unicorn drank
deeply. Still sleepy, Kamerynn the unicorn raised his
head and looked around the grove. The grasses
underfoot tasted sweet, and he ate heartily of the most
succulent grasses. The beams of brilliant sunlight
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bestial features as they approached what they considered
an easy kill.
Tristan slid to the ground at his friend’s side, staggering
slightly but retaining his balance. Robyn
joined him in an instant, and they lifted the Calishite’s
head from the ground. The eyelids flickered
and opened, but Daryth, his black eyes sunken in his
head, immediately shut them again and groaned in
pain.
“For the kings of Corwell!”
The old battle-cry resounded through the valley,
and Tristan looked up in time to see Arlen charge the
nearest of the Firbolgs. The man’s sword darted deep
into the creature’s belly, and he nimbly ducked the
violent swing of the huge club. Again he thrust, and
the blade struck home, and again he ducked the
savage counterstroke.
But now the other Firbolg leaped into the fray.
Arlen ducked another swing, and thrust home what
proved to be a mortal wound against his original
opponent, piercing upward through the savage heart.
The Firbolg dropped like a felled tree, but before
Arlen could recover his sword, a heavy club struck
him squarely in the temple.
Arlen’s skull caved in under the fearsome blow, and
his head snapped sideways as his neck broke. The old
warrior collapsed over the body of the Firbolg he had
just killed.
Robyn screamed in terror, but Tristan stared
numbly at the scene, murmuring, “No, no, no, no . . .”
The prince suddenly realized that Robyn was
standing by his side, holding his arm. A strange
sense of peace flowed through him, and he raised his
sword to face the on-coming giant.
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5
A BARD OF THE HARP
THE BLACK HORSE galloped quickly toward him, so
fast that Grunnarch wondered briefly whether
the red-robed rider intended to trample him. At the
last moment., the rider reined in, flashing his king a
tight smile. With a flourish, Laric, Captain of the
Bloodriders, dismounted.
“What kept you?” demanded the Red King. “The
council will begin without us!”
“I was inspecting my company,” commented Laric
coolly. The captain regarded the king boldly, subtly
challenging him. Angrily, Grunnarch turned away.
Damn Laric, anywayl It’s too bad the man was such a
good leader of horsemen—Grunnarch could not
afford to be without his services, or he would have
dismissed Laric from his command years ago. Yet no
other man could be expected to lead the Bloodriders
with Laric’s flair and daring.
A servant stepped forward, taking the reins of the
foaming black horse, and leading it toward the camp
of the Red King’s army. Laric ambled toward the king
with maddening calm.
“Do you think there’ll be war?” asked the captain,
slowly licking his lips.
91
penetrated the leafy canopy in several places, creating
dazzling shafts of yellow.
Slowly, the unicorn grazed and drank, recovering
his strength after the long sleep. The goddess had
awakened him for a purpose, he knew, and that purpose
would no doubt require strength and endurance.
With majestic grace, the animal moved through the
thick patches of clover.
Suddenly, the waters of the Moonwell swirled,
whispering slightly. Kamerynn stared at the milky
pool until he understood his task. The unicorn raised
his head and trotted toward the pristine and pastoral
forests of Myrloch Vale. After several minutes,
Kamerynn began to canter, and then to gallop. Soon
he raced like a ghost through winding pathways. All
the lesser beasts shrank from his path at his thundering
approach. His ivory horn held high, and his
mighty hoofs carefully avoiding the rarer plants, the
unicorn raced to answer the call of the earthmother.
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and broad, with a fair complexion and a flowing
yellow beard. The captain was short and dark, and
walked in a slouch that accentuated his small
stature. Yet, should an observer study their eyes, he
might come away with the feeling that Laric was by
far the more dangerous of the two men. There was
something unfeeling, and vaguely inhuman, in his
black and emotionless gaze.
“This way, my lords,” smiled a buxom wench as
the pair passed from the twilight to the bright
torchlight of the keep. The woman, swaying suggestively
beneath a colorful frock, led them around a
corner and into a vast courtyard. Grunnarch had
the feeling that she had been ordered to show off
Thelgaar’s might, for she took them on a roundabout
route that passed through huge barracks,
high ramparts, and thick walls. The Iron Keep was,
indeed, impressive.
Finally, the woman showed them into the huge
and smoky hall. From the look of the place, the festivities
had been going on for some time. The hall
was not warm but was brightened by the glow from
a huge blaze, laid in a long hearth. The massive
fireplace held no less than four tree trunks, sending
a hellish glow flickering throughout the chamber.
Huge oaken tables, laden with food and drink, lined
the room. Hundreds of men sat along the tables,
drinking and feasting as the deepening gloom of
night settled outside the fortress.
Grunnarch and Laric sat at a long bench, near the
men of Raag Hammerstaad. The Red King reached
for a massive leg of greasy meat, and tore off a chunk
with his teeth, ignoring the juices running through
his beard.
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“It’s certain,” grunted Grunnarch, cheered by the
reminder of the night’s occasion. They were to rneet
in the hall of Thelgaar Ironhand to plan the season’s
campaign.
Laric reached the king’s side, and now Grunnarch
paused. The king turned and looked at the scene
spread below him and could not help but be pleased.
The masts of hundreds of longships bristled from
the waters of Iron Bay. Upon the bleak shoreline, and
extending along the valley floor for several miles
inland, sprawled the tents, stables, and grounds of a
massive military encampment.
Rising above the masts and the tents stood Iron
Keep, the bleak and towering fortress of Thelgaar
Ironhand, Grunnarch and Laric’s current destination.
Tall granite walls stared down upon rocky
ground, and many towers climbed from within the
forbidding walls. The pennant of Thelgaar, a crimson
dragon emblazoned upon a black banner, flew from
the highest tower. Fluttering proudly from lower
towers were the symbols of other kings of the northmen,
kings who were Thelgaar’s guests. The scarlet
sword on the banner of Grunnarch the Red, the blue
whale of Raag Hammerstaad, and a half dozen banners
of lesser kings, all proclaimed an unprecedented
gathering of the northmen.
Gray skies glowered over the fortress, and wind
lashed at the surface of the harbor, as the kings of
the northmen and their chief henchmen prepared for
council.
The two northmen climbed the winding stone
stairway that led to a gaping doorway in the granite
face of the fortress. They created an interesting contrast—
men of the same race, yet the king was tall
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fair islands as our oe
places, and coexisted elsewhere with the native
Ffolk, until the Moonshae Islands, together, boast a
people proud and prosperous—a people that need
bow down before no foreign king!
“And now, again, we would embark upon a season
of war. With our combined might, we could strike
anywhere in the islands, and our triumph would be
insured. One more kingdom of the Ffolk would fall
before us, and the invincible tide would advance yet
further.
“But I say, my people, that this road is the wrong
one for us to follow!” A puzzled murmur began to
growl throughout the huge chamber.
“With this secure base to operate from, let us prepare
our ships for trade. Are we not the greatest
sailors in the world? Our vessels can carry goods
from any realm known to man, to any other realm.
And we shall profit handsomely.
“Let this be the road to our future!”
Gasps of astonishment, mingled with cries of outrage,
sounded, as Grunnarch and Raag leaped to
their feet, together with many other enraged northmen.
“Women’s words!” “War!” and many other, less
polite, phrases were roared.
Grunnarch leaped to the table, scattering mugs
and platters as he hoisted his broad battle-axe over
his head. He bellowed for the attention of his countrymen,
and gradually the northmen turned their
eyes to the fierce, yellow-bearded figure.
“The words of Thelgaar are the words of an old
man—a man who has lost the spirit of the warrior!
Our destiny leads us to the conquest of the Moonshaes,
and fate has given us the tool to fulfill that
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“Good to see you,” grunted Raag, wiping a smear of
ale from his mustache. “Things will start soon—after
our host is properly seatedf.”
Grunnarch grunted a response, turning to regard
the form of Thelgaar barely visible through the
smoke at the end of the hall.
Serving wenches brought more ale, and slaves
stoked the fire, as the mood in the chamber grew raucous.
The smells of cooked meat, spilled ale, and
woodsmoke reeked in the chamber. As the banquet
wore on, the odors of vomit and stale sweat added
their pungency to the air. Many of the revelers collapsed,
unconscious, at the table. Others chased and
caught unwilling wenches, having their way beneath
the tables or in any other unclaimed space.
Finally, the festivities drew to a close and the
Council of Kings began.
Thelgaar the invincible, mightiest king of the
northmen, and host of this gathering, rose to his feet,
and the room gradually grew silent. An impressive
man, even at his advanced age, Thelgaar took his
time in examining his guests. His creased face,
hidden behind a flowing white beard, showed no
expression as he began to speak.
“My guests . . . my countrymen.We stand gathered
in a mighty throng. An army, and a fleet, of heroic
proportions has gathered unbidden at my doorstep.
This is a force capable of making war, or sustaining
peace.”
Grunts and grumbles of confusion rose from the
northmen at the king’s last words. Peace was a subject
not much in attendance at this gathering.
“Hear me!” roared Thelgaar, and immediately the
noise ceased. “We have claimed many parts of these
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the body of his old friend and mentor. He felt curiously
unmoved—as if he should react strongly, but
could not summon the tears.
“Look!” cried Robyn, and the prince followed her
pointing finger.
A scarlet cloak billowed from a clump of trees
across the valley.With a closer look, the prince saw it
was worn by a rider on a huge black horse. The
mighty steed galloped toward them, and when Tristan
saw the huge longbow across the rider’s lap, he
knew that this was their benefactor. Quickly the
prince stole a look at the rocky notch above them.
There was still no sign of the other band of Firbolgs.
The rider drew closer, and the companions saw
that he was tall and very handsome. His black hair
and beard were trimmed neatly. The scarlet cloak, as
well as his blue tunic and black leggings, were of the
finest silk, and the bow he carried was heavier and
longer than any Tristan had ever seen.
The man’s face smiled from beneath a widebrimmed
hat. The brim of the hat sported several
brightly colored feathers—one each to match the
rider’s cape, tunic, and leggings. The garish costume
looked strangely out of place in the wilderness of
Llyrath Forest. Though travel-worn, the man’s clothing
was clean. His demeanor, as he rode nearer,
seemed friendly.
To complete the astonishing picture, a great black
falcon swooped low over the rider, gliding in a circle
about him. As the rider pulled up before Tristan,
Robyn, and Pawldo, the falcon settled to his broad
shoulder.
“Ho!” he cried, cheerfully. “ ’Twas a fight to make a
stirring verse!” For the first time, Tristan noticed the
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destiny. Not in the ages of our children, or our grandchildren,
but now!”
Grunnarch turned a full circle to regard the others
in the room. His words, insolent and treasonous,
would have started a brawl, had not he voiced the
opinions of so many in the room.
“I say we sail to war before the season grows stale!
My scouts have reported to me in detail of the kingdom
of Corwell, scarce a hundred leagues south of
here. This is a rich and mighty kingdom, yet with the
force gathered here today, we could take it! Once Corwell
falls, the realms of the Ffolk will have been cut
in half, and the rest of the Moonshaes will be ours for
the taking!”
Raucous cries of agreement arose from the gathering.
The noise gradually coalesced into a single cry:
“War! War!” in a chant that filled the vast chamber.
Weapons, fists, and boots pounded a martial beat
that intensified to a fever pitch. Only gradually did
the northmen realize that Thelgaar had stood again,
and slowly the tumult ceased enough that the old
king could be heard.
“If such is your wish, I cannot stop you. But know
this: you shall sail to war without the ships and
fighting men of Thelgaar Ironhand!”
* * * * *
Even as the Firbolg’s lifeless body crashed to the
ground, Tristan sprinted across the rocky ground to
kneel beside his friend and teacher. No second
glance was needed to tell him that Arlen was dead.
The Prince of Corwell stood and stared numbly at
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every child of the Ffolk learned, was the hero who
had first united their race under one rule. “Do you
travel for your pleasure, then?”
“Alas, no—I’m here on the High King’s business. I
journey to Caer Corwell. Am I correct in guessing
that is your home?” Tristan and Robyn nodded.
“If my falcon, Sable, and I may be allowed to
accompany you?” the bard raised his eyebrows.
“Of course!” Suddenly the prince remembered their
surroundings. “But we are not out of danger!”
Quickly he explained that there were more Firbolgs
in the vicinity. Nervously, he glanced up at the
summit of the pass, but as yet there was no sign of
further attackers.
“Let’s see to your friend,” the bard said, nodding
toward Daryth, who was beginning to stir. “And the
other one?” Keren indicated Arlen’s body, lying in a
pool of blood.
Tristan had not considered the problem, but knew
instantly that he could not leave the old warrior’s
body to the enemy. “We’ll have to strap him over one
of the horses. He was the captain of my father’s
guard, and a loyal soldier who died a warrior’s death.
He shall be buried in Corwell, in the royal barrow.”
The bard helped Tristan secure the body over
Arlen’s horse. At the same time, Robyn splashed cold
water over Daryth’s face, and the Calishite slowly
regained consciousness. Soon he climbed to his feet,
but he could not move his left arm.
Daryth’s horse stood nearby, and Robyn, after
strapping his arm with her scarf, helped him into the
saddle. As Keren finished helping with Arlen’s body,
he saw the Firbolg, helplessly entangled in the
branches of the trees. The monster had given up
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smoothly curved harp slung over the man’s shoulder.
The rider leaped to the ground, startling the falcon
into an abrupt flight, and bowed with a flourish. He
glanced around the scene of the battle, his gray eyes
seemingly absorbing every detail. Turning back, he
spoke to the companions.
“Keren Donnell, bard of the harp, at your service.”
Tristan and Robyn exchanged a look of surprise at
the name of the greatest bard among the Ffolk.
“I am Tristan Kendrick, Prince of Corwell. This is
my father’s ward, Robyn, and our friend, Pawldo.”
Pawldo nodded his head, studying the man’s bow
with considerable interest, and Robyn curtseyed
quickly.
The prince continued. “Thank you for your help—
you saved our lives.”
“ ’Tis a delight to find I have aided a prince and a
lady!” smiled the bard, shrugging off his accomplishment.
“And it is always a pleasure to meet one of the
small folk,” he added, bowing low to Pawldo.
“Your fame has preceded you, sir,” added Tristan.
“It is an honor to meet the most famous bard among
the kingdoms of the Ffolk! But what could bring you
from the court of the High King to the wilds of Gwynneth?”
“Ah, Gwynneth—fairest of the Moonshaes, in my
own opinion. Your island also holds a wealth of
the Ffolk’s ancient history. Why, did you know
that the Sword of Cymrych Hugh itself is rumored
to be hidden somewhere on Gwynneth?”
“It is a fair place, indeed,” agreed the prince, “And
no, I didn’t know that Cymrych Hugh’s sword was
supposed to be here somewhere—though that is an
intriguing thought, I’ll admit.” Cymrych Hugh, as
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“Could they have stopped?” asked Robyn, hopefully,
glancing back.
“They might. I don’t know,” answered Tristan. Suddenly
he desperately wanted his teacher’s advice and
realized how much he would miss Arlen. “We can’t
afford to find out,” he finally said, forcing himself to
make the decision. “We must move on.”
Daryth moaned, slumping weakly on his horse.
Tristan, wondering if the Calishite would survive the
ride, thought they might stop . . . but would they all
die in a Firbolg ambush? . . . Oh, why did Arlen have
to die?
The questions brought a weight of misery onto the
prince’s shoulders. To add to his depression, it soon
began to rain.
* * * * *
The hours after dawn brought Ffolk bustling into
the streets and fields of Corwell. Fishermen took
their vessels from the little harbor with the dawn,
and farmers busied themselves with a dozen chores.
Even the craftsmen were about, tidying and puttering
as they prepared for the day’s work.
A mile away, the halfling community of Lowhill
slumbered on as the sun climbed toward the zenith.
Only in the late morning hours did a few stumbling,
bleary-eyed halflings venture forth from their snug
burrows. The halflings knew how to enjoy life, and
getting up with the dawn was not recommended.
But finally the day brought its quotient of activity
to Lowhill—today more than the usual.
Allian, a young maiden of fifty-two years, emerged
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struggling, but looked dumbly and suspiciously at
the humans and halfling before him.
“How did that happen?” the bard asked, surprised.
“Robyn did it,” responded the prince, sounding surprised
even to himself. “She told me that she doesn’t
know how, but it happened when she cried out for
him to stop!”
Keren turned and regarded Robyn with renewed
interest, looking from the trapped Firbolg to the lass,
and back again. Robyn just lowered her eyes and
said nothing. Tristan inspected his hounds, two of
which had fallen beneath the Firbolg’s club. The
others seemed healthy, however, and milled around
expectantly.
Preparations finished, Keren, Robyn, Pawldo, and
Tristan mounted their horses, Tristan in front of
Arlen’s body on the dead warrior’s horse. Just then, a
thundering shout announced that a fresh band of
Firbolgs had crested the pass. With bellows of rage,
the monsters raced downhill. Several stopped to
throw boulders which fell far short of the companions,
who were speeding on their way.
“Too bad we didn’t have a chance to bring their
heads with us,” called the bard to Tristan, referring
to an old battle custom of some Ffolk clans. “They
make splendid trophies, Firbolg heads!”
“Indeed,” replied Tristan, a little sickened at the
thought.
Urging the steeds forward, with the hounds
loping easily beside them, the little party moved
down the valley as quickly as they safely could.
Riding hard, they pulled slowly away from the lumbering
Firbolgs, who soon dropped out of sight
behind them.
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had been mutilated and torn by a creature of
immense, and unbelievably savage, power.
Suppressing her cries no longer, Allian turned, sobbing,
and ran from the burrow. Other halflings stood
apart from the crowd, breathing heavily, faces ashen.
Allian fell upon the ground and shivered. She tried to
blank out thoughts of the nearby den, but her mind
kept calling up images of huge, fanged creatures.
They roared and growled in her head, and she could
not drive them away.
* * * * *
Gray clouds and mist gave way to a steady rain as
the companions came down from the highest reaches
of Llyrath Forest. They pushed the horses hard,
eager to put distance between themselves and the
Firbolgs. They did not know if the monsters had pursued
them beyond the valley, but neither could they
risk stopping to find out.
Daryth rode silently, his jaws clenched. Robyn’s
crude sling held his arm motionless, but the strain of
riding had drained his face of color. Tristan knew
that they would have to stop for the night, and he
prayed fervently to the goddess that the Firbolgs
would not follow them into the low country.
The rain alternated between pounding downpour
and misting drizzle. Each mile the party covered
seemed to drive the dampness deeper into
flesh and bone. Robyn located a winding game
trail, and the group moved along this in single file,
with the woman in the lead. Pawldo followed, with
Daryth and Tristan behind him, while the bard
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from her burrow. She was alarmed to feel a sense of
urgency running through the community. She saw
her fellow halflings hastening to and fro, all looking
very concerned. What could all the fuss be?
Halflings of all ages were bustling past the little
door leading to her father’s burrow, all heading
downhill toward the fringes of the community. Following
sleepily along, Allian noticed that her people
had gathered somberly around one burrow at the
bottom of the hill.
As she skipped down the hill in an effort to keep up
with the children and young men, Allian grew more
and more concerned. The entrance to the burrow did
not look right, did not look right at all.
Huge clumps of sod lay strewn about the entrance,
and the maiden saw that something had dug furiously
at the ground around the sturdy wooden door.
That portal, she saw as she moved closer, had been
splintered inward by some awful force. The entire
tunnel leading into the burrow had been enlarged,
excavated hurriedly by some unknown creature with
tremendous digging power.
Forcing her way through the crowd that grew
steadily thicker and more apprehensive, she looked
inside the burrow, and could barely stifle a gasp of
horror.
The formerly cozy den now lay in shambles. The
neat and sturdy furniture had been smashed
beyond recognition, the stove overturned, and all
the dishes broken into thousands of pieces. But
none of this compared to the horror in the middle of
the den.
The bodies, two of Allian’s size, and two much
smaller, had been gored beyond recognition. Each
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She looked up, making a visible effort to shake off
her despondency. “Where are we going to camp? I
hope it’s someplace close.”
“Wait here with the others,” Tristan said. “And
I’ll find a place where we can rest in some security.”
Relieved to think about something other than
Arlen, the prince cantered away from the path to
investigate several of the dense patches of pine.
He soon found one that was secure from outside
view, and contained a large dry area where a soft
bed of needles was sheltered from the rain by thick
overhanging branches. The rest of the party joined
him, and Robyn immediately built a small, smokeless
fire. Tristan, meanwhile, rode back over their
prints with a sweep made from a thick pine bough.
In a few minutes he had erased all sign of their
passage, creating the impression that they had
continued on up the main trail.
The shelter proved as warm and dry as they could
have hoped. They took turns on guard, but there had
been no sign of pursuing Firbolgs by the time the
gray dawn arrived. Daryth shook with fever and
moaned in delirium. They tied him to the saddle and
rode on in the cold. The only bright spot was that
there continued to be no sign of their enemy behind
them.
“They’re probably not bold enough to venture into
the lowlands,” commented Keren. “Even if they are
roving—and I fear our halfling friend may be right
about that—they will not approach too closely to
human settlements in such a small band.”
“I hope you’re right,” replied Tristan. As it was,
Daryth’s chances of living through the journey to
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brought up the rear. The path twisted and turned
among towering pines in a forest nearly devoid of
underbrush where the trees themselves provided
some protection from the downpour.
Tristan pulled his wool cloak tightly about him,
and wore a fur cape over it, but even this combined
insulation could not keep the cold at bay. Soon he
began to shiver uncontrollably. Before him, he saw
that Daryth seemed ready to fall from his horse. At
the head of the small column, Robyn slumped miserably
in her saddle, wracked by chills.
“We’ll have to stop,” the prince called over his
shoulder to the bard. “If we don’t build a fire and
warm up, I don’t think Daryth’ll make it through
the night.”
“A wise observation,” agreed the bard. “Let us look
for a suitable spot.”
The trail soon began to climb another of the interminable
ridges that lined Llyrath Forest. The pines
here grew in tight clusters, with patches of meadow
between. In one of these open places, Tristan urged
his horse up next to Robyn’s. The rain had lightened
again to a mere mist in the air.
“Let’s stop and camp among these pines,” he suggested,
and she nodded her head wearily. The prince
had never seen her look so hopeless and miserable,
and a great shaft of guilt pierced him.
“I . . . I’m sorry,” said the prince. “I got us into this
mess. And I thought following the Firbolgs would be
such a great adventure!”
“It’s not your fault,” said Robyn, sighing. She
looked at the motionless body behind Tristan, and
her mouth tightened. “We all wanted to go—except
Arlen.We are all responsible for the consequences.”
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“Quickly!” the woman urged, her plump face wrinkling
in concern. “Poor lad! Let’s get him inside.”
Gratefully, the others followed the family into the
warm cottage. For the first time in two days, the companions
were able to drive the dampness from their
clothing and bodies.
“I am Keegan of Dynnwall,” announced their host
as they entered the little home. “This is Enid, and my
son—Evan. Lad, run out and tend to their horses! Be
quick, now!”
Evan, still gaping at the visitors, turned and ran
toward the horses. The rest of them carried Daryth
carefully to the single, large bed. The Calishite had
become completely delirious, and the fever seemed to
burn him away.
Leaving Daryth to the women, Tristan took advantage
of the shelter, and the woodsman’s supplies, to
wrap Arlen’s body more securely. The flesh, clammy
and lifeless, seemed to bear little resemblance to the
man who had taught and tutored the prince throughout
his life. Tristan prepared the body as for a
funeral, certain that his father would have such a
ceremony when they arrived home. Wistfully, he
recalled his old teacher’s gruff advice. His compliments
had been few, but he had never despaired of
Tristan’s ability to learn and even excel.
The man had died a warrior’s death! And such,
among the Ffolk, was the finest way a man could
die—at least, this is what the prince had always
assumed. This assumption now felt very hollow.
Tristan entered the cottage after dark, welcoming
the smells of spices and warm smoke that met him as
he passed through the door. Keegan and his family
offered every comfort their simple home could
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Caer Corwell were slender. If they should have to
fight, those chances would be zero.
Toward the end of this day of travel, the party
reached a small woodsman’s cottage. The homestead
lay within a sheltered vale, beside a pleasantly bubbling
stream. An assortment of skins covered a rack
outside the home, and a small, empty corral stood
forlornly beside a dilapidated shed.
“Who are you?” The voice was sour and suspicious.
The speaker stood at the corner of the cottage. He
was a middle-aged, work-worn man, dressed in
simple clothes. A long-hafted woodsman’s axe rested
on his shoulder—it looked as if he could swing it into
a ready position with a simple flick of his wrist.
The door to the cottage creaked open, and the
prince saw a dim shape inside. More clearly, however,
he saw a stout crossbow extend through the portal,
with a bolt aimed straight at his heart.
“Who are you?” asked the woodsman again.
“I am Tristan Kendrick, Prince of Corwell,” said
Tristan, swinging boldly to the ground. He flinched
as he saw the crossbow quiver slightly, but the bolt
did not fly. “We have a wounded companion—he
needs shelter and warmth.”
The woodsman’s attitude was already relaxing.
“Yes, of course. I have seen you before, my prince.
Please forgive my suspicions—these are dangerous
times in Llyrath.”
Giving a slight bob, he added, “Won’t you come in?”
The cottage door swung open, and the crossbow
emerged, followed by a wide-eyed lad of twelve or so.
A stout woman bustled out after the boy and hurried
to Daryth’s horse, where Robyn was already helping
the Calishite from the saddle.
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unnatural animal, incapable of reproduction. Yet, as
the king of the forest, it guarded and protected
creatures of the woodland that even the druids did
not know.
And the leviathan, the largest of the goddess’s children,
was charged with the same responsibility at
sea. The leviathan slept nearly always, certainly for
centuries at a time. When awakened, however, it
became a force unmatched in the natural world.
The last of the children was a gathering of wolves
known as the Pack.
Wolves commonly roamed the wild places of
Gwynneth and served their natural role as carnivores,
helping to preserve the Balance in this role.
Yet, in times of danger, the goddess would summon
the wolves, and the Pack would form. Many were its
numbers, and formidable its might. Although the
distant baying of wolves was a chilling sound to a
person alone on a moonless night, the gathering of
the Pack was a mighty sign of the goddess’s determination
to see the Balance maintained.
As the last strains of harp music drifted through
the house,Tristan nodded wearily. Druids, and
wolves, and unicorns all seemed the stuff of legends.
. . . He and his friends went to their beds, to
dream of Arlen, Firbolgs, and the pleasant tales—
the stuff of legend—that had flowed from Keren’s
harp.
Of them all, only the bard suspected that a new
legend had perhaps already begun.
* * * * *
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supply. After a plain but filling dinner and several
glasses of the woodsman’s own wine, the company
relaxed in the first real comfort they had known in
days. Only Daryth’s weakened condition, and the
unknown threats that might lurk in the forest
beyond the sturdy door, prevented the night from
becoming a completely pleasant one.
“Your companions tell us that you are Keren Donnell,’
said the woodsman hesitantly after the meal.
“Could . . . could we beseech you to play for us?”
“I’d be delighted,” said the bard, rising and crossing
to the jumble of supplies they had dropped inside the
door. Keren pulled out his harp and, as he strolled
back to his chair, strummed a few chords, tuning his
strings with tender care. Then he began to play.
The Song of the Earthmother floated through the
cottage. The words told of the goddess in all her glory,
and how she had grown from the balance of good and
evil in the world. She and her worshippers knew that
neither good nor evil, in a pure sense, would benefit
the world. Thus, the goddess was devoted to preserving
the Balance.
The song then told of the druids, who were the
human children of the goddess. The duties of the
druids included preserving the sanctity of her wild
places from the depredations of the rest of
humankind. They insured that the Balance of the
wilderness remained intact—that creatures were
born, and died, in a manner pleasing to the goddess.
But the goddess also had other, even mightier children,
and the song next told of these, one at a time.
First came verses about the great unicorn,
Kamerynn, who dwelt in Myrloch Vale. A creature
of enchantment and power, the unicorn was an
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something, but stopped as the king’s iron gaze challenged
her for a moment.
“And who are you?” The king turned his attention
to Keren.
“Father, allow me to present Keren Donnell—bard
of the harp. He intervened to save us after Arlen
died.”
“What would you have done if you’d had to rely on
yourself?” snorted the king, with stinging scorn. Tristan
flinched, but made no reply. King Kendrick
turned again to the bard.
“My thanks, sir—though I don’t know that the
kingdom will be any the better for it. Your fame, of
course, has preceded you, and I’m honored to have
the greatest bard of the Ffolk as a guest.” He spoke
the pleasantries mechanically, as if they were statements
to get out of the way. “And what brings you to
Corwell?”
“A message, my lord, from the High King to yourself.”
“I might have known,” grumbled King Kendrick. “It
has been a long time since we have felt the hand of
Caer Callidyrr in our quiet part of the world.”
“I fear that your part of the world is not as quiet as
you would wish,” commented the bard softly.
“Indeed,’ muttered the king, looking at Arlen’s lifeless
form. “Whatever your missive, it must wait for
the morrow—we shall have a funeral tonight.” He
turned his back on the companions, and his voice
boomed across the courtyard.
“Gretta! Start cooking for a funeral feast of high
honor! Warren—send for a wagonload of ale! You
men, prepare the barrow!” Caught up in the preparations,
the king marched into the hall to oversee
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The woodsman, Keegan, had an oxcart, and begged
to be allowed to accompany the group to Caer Corwell.
Tristan accepted his offer, in the name of the
king, since the cart would give Daryth a more comfortable
place to ride. For two more days the party
moved northward, sleeping at inns in small cantrevs,
until they finally emerged onto the moors south of
Corwell. In the middle of the next day, the castle
came into sight. The humans continued on the road,
and Pawldo gave his farewells. He took to the fields,
his pony galloping eagerly, as the halfling rode home
to Lowhill.
The bedraggled party slowly climbed the road
toward the gates. Their appearance aroused considerable
alarm, and as they drew near to the castle, a
dozen men-at-arms ran from the gates to see who to
help. As the group limped into the courtyard, the
king himself emerged from the great hall and
stalked toward them.
“What happened?” he demanded, confronting the
prince as Tristan dismounted. The king saw the body
on the withers of the horse, and his face turned
white.
“Father, there. Are Firbolgs abroad in Llyrath
Forest! We followed them, and they attacked us.
Arlen gave his life to save us.”
The king’s face was blank as he looked at the rest
of the party. His eyes quickly dismissed Keegan, driving
the wagon, but lingered upon Keren, then moved
on. “And the houndmaster?”
“He lives,” said Robyn.
“Send for the cleric!” called the king to a man-atarms
who immediately mounted a horse and raced
for the temple in the village. Robyn started to say
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arm. “We’ll wait right outside the door.”
She pulled her arm from his grasp and stared
unblinking at the cleric for several seconds. He just
calmly stared back, and finally she turned and
stomped from the room, with the prince springing
after her.
“It can’t do any harm,” he said, quietly closing the
door. “And it might even help Daryth.”
Robyn just scowled and turned away to pace anxiously
back and forth in the hall. After several minutes,
the door to Daryth’s room opened, and the cleric
emerged.
“Shhh. He sleeps,” announced Friar Nolan in a
whisper. “He needs rest if he is to recover. You may
see him, briefly.”
The pair silently entered the room. With astonishment,
they saw that Daryth did indeed sleep peacefully,
with no sign of the tortured thrashing, nor high
fever, that he had displayed throughout the long
journey home. His shattered arm looked whole again
and rested comfortably upon his chest.
Robyn, her eyes wide with amazement, looked at
Friar Nolan with fresh respect as they emerged from
the room. The man was obviously more than a sanctimonious
busy body.
“Thank you. How did you . . . ?” the prince began to
ask, but the cleric silenced him with a gesture.
“Not me,” he responded humbly. “Such is the
power of the new gods. I am merely one of their
agents, trying to bring knowledge of them to these
islands. It would not hurt you to learn more of
them, you know.”
“You seek to undermine the power of the Mother!”
“No, my child.” The cleric’s tone was patronizing.
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the details.
Tristan, Robyn, and Keren helped Daryth to a bed,
and the prince directed the bard to guest quarters.
He felt like apologizing for his father’s rudeness, but
Keren seemed to take no notice of it, so the prince did
not raise the subject.
Daryth moaned feverishly as Robyn and Tristan
stood beside him. “I wish there were something more
we could do,” Robyn said, holding a cool cloth to his
head.
Suddenly the door burst open, and the beaming,
pudgy figure of Friar Nolan waddled into the room.
“My poor children,” he said. “How awful! I heard
about the Firbolgs and Arlen. Dear me!” He bustled
to the side of the young man in the bed, and then
turned to the pair.
“What are you doing here?” asked Robyn, suspicious.
“Do not think you can tamper with the will of
the goddess! Leave! And take your new gods with
you!”
“That is the farthest thing from my mind,” promised
the cleric. “I simply wish to see if I can make the
young man feel any better.You don’t object to that, do
you?”
“I don’t trust you and your new gods,” stated the
girl flatly. “But do what you can to help him.”
“You two must leave me,” countered the cleric
simply, as he bent to pull open one of the Calishite’s
eyes. He clucked nervously as he looked at the wide
black pupil that appeared to have lost its sparkle.
“No!” Robyn crossed her arms.
“I must insist,” replied the cleric, looking straight
into her angry green eyes.
“Come on,” said the prince, gently taking Robyn’s
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“May the goddess take him to her bosom in the
earth, and may his spirit fare well.”
With these few words, the king stepped aside, and
the bearers carried the body into the barrow. Keren,
who had been standing near the back of the crowd,
strummed a chord, and then gave them the Song of
the Earthmother—the ballad that had so lulled the
sad companions on the journey back.
Tristan and Robyn stood before the barrow as the
rest of the Ffolk filed back to the castle. Robyn
sobbed once, and the prince placed an arm around
her shoulders. She started to pull away, but then
leaned against him as if, for the first time in her life,
she needed his strength.
The prince’s own vision grew blurry. As they turned
back to the castle, he whispered into the night.
“Goodby, old friend. And thank you.”
* * * * *
The passage of Myrloch Vale proved to be no more
than a minor nuisance as the Beast made its way
northward. Soon it left the realms of the dwarves,
Firbolgs, and Llewyrr behind, without encountering
any of the Vale’s occupants. Sometime later, it
paused at the rocky shore of a gray and stormtossed
strait.
For a moment the Beast reflected. It had gained,
already, a potent ally with the perversion of the
druid. Trahern of Oakvale would have much to do in
following the orders of his master, Kazgoroth. Also,
the Firbolgs could be counted upon to perform their
special tasks, as the Beast had commanded them.
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“There is room in the realms—even on the Moonshaes—
for all of the gods. I simply seek to spread the
words of the gods I worship.”
“At what cost to the goddess? And to the Ffolk?”
“Perhaps someday you’ll understand. I’m sure your
friend will,” the cleric added, with a nod toward
Daryth.
The bustling cleric left to return to the village, and
Robyn, both angry and bewildered, stalked to her
room to change. The prince stood for a moment outside
Daryth’s door, wondering at the miraculous
recovery, and then he went to his own chambers to
prepare for the funeral.
They had completed changing into fresh, dry
clothes just as the preparations were completed, and
they joined the procession that emerged from the
castle in late afternoon. An honor guard of the king’s
warriors carried upon their shoulders a bier bearing
the body. The king, Tristan, and Robyn followed, and,
because the word had spread rapidly, hundreds of
residents of the castle and town fell into a column
behind. The procession marched down the road from
the castle gate, across the commons meadows, and
arrived at the great barrows hall that sat upon the
moor, a half mile from the castle.
King Kendrick stepped to the forefront of the
assembly, where Arlen’s body lay upon a raised
mound of earth. For a moment, he looked down at the
man who had served him all his adult life.
“A brave man, and a mighty warrior has died. Yet,
he died as he would have wished—in battle, protecting
the family of his king.” Did Tristan hear, or imagine,
an element of scorn in his father’s voice—scorn
for his son, who had caused the warrior’s death?
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The old king, Thelgaar Ironhand, having spoken
for peace, rested easily, knowing that what he had
done was right. Thelgaar did not know what entered
his chamber, that dark and moonless night. He was
barely aware of drooling jaws striking at his throat,
tearing his heart, still pumping, from his lifeless
body.
The monster feasted on the gruesome corpse, licking
blood from wherever it had spattered. It then
adjusted its shape to match that of the king it had
slain. This body, it knew, would serve for a long
time.
After dawn had broken upon the camps of the
northmen, Kazgoroth emerged from the king’s
chamber in the body of the slain king. It spoke to
the heralds of Thelgaar, and summoned the other
kings of the northmen to council.
Word spread fast throughout the camps and
across the harbor. The spirits of the northmen
soared, as the news brought fresh confidence, and
jubilant awareness of their own might.
By noon there was not a single warrior in that
vast encampment that did not know that Thelgaar
Ironhand had changed his mind. The pennant of the
red dragon would fly alongside those of the other
northern kings. The fleet, and the army, would
march in all its supreme power for the subjugation
of Gwynneth.
Thelgaar Ironhand would lead the northmen to
war.
* * * * *
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Doubtless, they had already begun. And even the
guard, Erian, could prove to be a useful tool, if his
own stupidity did not get him killed first.
But these allies would not be enough to carry the
attack to the heart of the goddess’s strength. The
Beast would need more help. Whether it was
instinct or distant memory that told Kazgoroth
such help could be found across the stormy strait,
who can say?
The Beast knew that it would gain its most powerful
allies among the northmen, and to this end it
now moved.
The waters presented Kazgoroth with no more
obstacle than had the magic of the Llewyrr. The creature’s
shape changed as it entered the water, and in
the body of a large shark, it swam easily from Gwynneth
to Oman. When it reached its destination, it
rose again from the water and walked onto the land.
This time, it did not use the guise of a woman, but
instead took the form of a tall, blond-bearded warrior,
striding forward with all the arrogant confidence
of a northman passing through his own
domain. Indeed, reflected the monster, this island—
as with all of the Moonshaes—would one day be part
of its domain.
In time, Kazgoroth reached the northern shore of
Oman, there to see the harbor filled with longships,
and the tents stretching for miles along the coastal
plane and inland valleys. Ignoring the tents and the
ships, the warrior strode to the looming fortress that
commanded the hill rising above the harbor. It
passed through the gates, unnoticed, and moved
freely among the dark and drafty halls of the
fortress. It knew whom it sought.
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regretted that Daryth had recovered so completely
under the cleric’s ministrations.
“Hello, my prince.”
Tristan turned to see a somber-looking Pawldo,
accompanied by the halfling maiden he had been
with at the fair—was her name Allian? Her doll-like
face was marred by deep circles under her eyes, and
she darted looks about the hall as if she was frightened
of something.
“How are you?” asked the prince. “Is something
wrong?”
“Trouble in Lowhill,” admitted the halfling, as
Allian looked away. “Some creature tore into a
burrow a couple of nights ago—under the full moon.
Killed a whole family.”
Keren, sitting nearby, turned at the halfling’s
words. “The full moon, you say? What kind of creature?”
“Nobody saw it, but it must have been terrifying. It
dug the dirt from around the door—left massive claw
marks—and tore the burrow apart.” Allian covered
her face and turned away from Pawldo’s description.
He lowered his voice, while Daryth and Robyn
walked up to listen. The two halflings and humans
settled around a small table. Tristan signaled a
scullery maid for a fresh pitcher of ale, while Pawldo
continued.
“It didn’t eat the bodies—just ripped ’em up, and
spread the blood around. The warriors followed its
tracks to Corlyth Creek, but then lost it. No one had
ever seen prints like those before—dog-like, but
huge.”
“The trouble is perhaps worse than we imagined,”
mused the bard. “First, the Firbolgs, and now this.
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The funeral feast had been a grand success.
Broken platters, spilled mugs, and sleeping revelers
lay strewn about Caer Corwell’s great hall. The
music of pipe and cymbal wailed through the air, and
many dancers still caroused about the hall. Tristan
spun Robyn through a wild circle, catching her as she
bent back almost to the floor. He thought that the
maiden had never looked so lovely as she now did.
Her black hair flowed freely as she spun, before
settling down her back as far as her hips. Her slender
waist, beneath his hands, seemed supple and
strong, and he wanted to be more daring with her,
but could not gather the courage. It was odd—he
had grappled and groped with a dozen or more
maidens who meant nothing to him, but when he
tried to show affection to this woman—this delicious
creature who had grown, almost overnight,
from his childhood playmate—his whole being
seemed to freeze. Of course, she was not a mere
scullery maid whom he might try to lure into the
stables after the celebration. Still, his hesitancy
was maddening.
“Excuse me.”
The prince turned to see Daryth, looking amazingly
healthy, standing behind him. The Calishite
cleared his throat. “May I have the pleasure of the
next dance?”
Robyn glanced at his arm, which hung freely, and
quickly said, “Certainly.” She spun away from the
prince to settle into Daryth’s long arms.
For a second, Tristan watched them whirl away,
realizing that his moment had passed. Disgusted
with himself, he turned back to the table and sat,
pouring another mug of ale. For a moment he almost
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spoke. “Do you know more?” he said quietly.
“No. She has been here since I was a small boy. For
a long time I thought she was my sister.”
“But no more.” Daryth winked at him.
Robyn opened her mouth to go on, but felt suddenly
that the bard wasn’t listening anymore. He stared
idly at the ceiling, fingering the strings of his harp.
Suddenly he stood, and smiled at her—a smile that
lifted her spirits.
“We shall talk some more, soon,” he said, and
turned to amble toward the hearth.
Gradually, the wailing of the pipes died away as
the bard settled himself by the fire. His harp, a
golden instrument of grace and beauty, lay in his
hands like an object of love. As the room fell into
silence, the bard began to strum the wondrous
golden instrument.
The music floated through the hall like a magic
spell, soothing and calming, bringing peace and contentment.
After the raucous chords of the pipes and
cymbals, the harp’s music was gentle, soft. It was a
sound that the Ffolk of Corwell heard only rarely, so
all were silent, eagerly anticipating the next notes.
For several minutes Keren played, without
singing, and the frenzied mood mellowed easily into
relaxed anticipation. When he knew that his audience
was ready, the bard began his first ballad.
The Song of the Llewyrr was certainly one of the
oldest songs of the Ffolk, yet its haunting beauty
flowed freshly from Keren’s harp. His voice, strong
and deep, caressed each word, and filled the refrains
with haunting sadness. Through it all, each listener
felt the real power of magic.
The song told of the Llewyrr before the coming of
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The power of the goddess seems to be waning rapidly.”
“But what does it mean?” cried Robyn, agitated.
“What can we do about it?”
“More than you can imagine,” replied Keren. “Tell
me, what did you do to cause the trees to entangle
that Firbolg?”
Robyn looked both embarrassed and puzzled.
“Nothing, really. It was going to . . . to kill Tristan,
and I screamed—I guess I said ‘No!’ or something.
And it just happened.”
“Have you ever done anything like this before?”
“No, never. I mean, I’ve always felt a kind of
empathy with plants—with all wild things. Sometimes
it seems as if I can share their joy and
sorrow—if plants can know such things.”
“Tell me about your parents,” persisted the bard.
“I never knew them. My father was an honored
captain in the king’s regiment, but he died in the
last war with the northmen, before I was born.” For
a moment, Robyn looked hesitant, but then she continued.
“I don’t know who my mother was. The king told
me that she died when I was born. I’ve asked him
about her, but he won’t tell me more. I, well, I’ve
always gotten the impression that there was some
kind of scandal or something—the king gets really
angry if I press him, so I’ve never forced the issue.
And no one else around here will tell me anything
either!” She scowled as she remembered her frustrations
over the years—everyone she asked telling her
they didn’t know, lying to her! Or else saying it was
better she didn’t know.
Daryth looked curiously at Tristan while Robyn
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Many stories were still told about the hero—the
tale of his death in battle with some fearsome beast
was one of the grand epic tales of the Ffolk. After
that battle, his sword had disappeared mysteriously.
That mighty weapon, forged for the hero by dwarven
metalsmiths, from steel forged by the goddess herself,
was in itself worthy of heroic tales. Keren’s song
devoted several verses to the story of the weapon’s
creation.
Tristan idly dreamed about the sword, wondering
what it looked like, what it felt like to wield. Arlen
had told him of it many times, and listening to the
song was like listening to a tale of an old friend.
Keren continued to play, lifting his audience with
tales of hope and heroes, of unicorns, and the children
of the goddess. Then he would bring his listeners
to the point of despair with a tale of tragic love, or
an ancient treasure long lost to the pillaging raiders
of the north.
Finally, the bard played a slow tune of rare beauty
and exquisite pain. It was the song of a hero, a gentle
man who had taught, and served, and earned his
peace, but in the end had met his death in battle.
Robyn’s head rested upon the prince’s shoulder as
Tristan listened, enthralled by the piercing strains.
He felt Robyn quake, and felt the soft wetness of her
tears as they moistened his tunic. He held her to
comfort her, and listened, to comfort himself. But he
could find no solace in the music.
Such was the Song of Arlen.
* * * * *
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man. Long-lived, and peace-loving, the elves dwelt
throughout the Moonshaes in complete harmony
with the forces of the land. The first humans to
arrive were welcomed and protected by the Llewyrr.
Gradually, as the numbers of humans increased, the
Llewyrr withdrew from their ancestral haunts. On
many islands, they were known only through legend,
the song said. But here, on Gwynneth, the Llewyrr
retreated to Myrloch Vale, and there they lived, small
in number, and shy, but possessing the same carefree
spirit and harmonious sense of nature as they had
since time immemorial. Humans saw them rarely
but knew they were there.
Next, the bard played the Song of the North Wind,
a harsh and jarring allegory of the sweeping winter
wind that blew fiercely off the trackless sea. Cutting,
freezing, and killing, the wind swept over the lands
of the Ffolk. All who heard knew that the wind symbolized
the coming of the northmen, who had rolled
across much of the Isles of Moonshae with the same
implacable force as the icy gale. The blood enemies of
the Ffolk embarked on frequent raids against their
more peaceful neighbors. Tristan knew that his
father had joined campaigns against them, but none
had occurred within the prince’s lifetime.
The bard then raised their spirits with the proud
Ballad of Cymrych Hugh—the story of the greatest
hero in the known history of the Ffolk. Bearing a
silver sword that legends said had been given him by
the goddess herself, Cymrych Hugh united all of the
lands of the Ffolk under one rule for the first time in
their history. He became the first of the High Kings,
and his legendary battles with Firbolgs and northmen
made for stirring verse.
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light of the pool—light that was amplified more than
nature decreed, for this was a Moonwell. More and
more of the Pack crowded into the glen, until every
foot of space was occupied. And still the Pack grew,
spilling out of the glen, and down the narrow valley
below it.
For hours the wolves watched the shining waters,
until dawn colored the eastern sky. As creatures of one
mind, the Pack rose and began to run. Numbering in
the thousands, the Pack filled the narrow valley from
side to side, rushing like a tide, inexorably toward the
sea.
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The funeral feast faded away with the late hours
of the night. Only a few people remained in the
great hall, including Tristan, Robyn, Pawldo, Allian,
and Keren. Once again, the bard took up his harp,
and sang a song of history and legend.
The bard’s listeners fought sleep, so they might
hear the words and music that so beautifully
caressed them. Although they were not altogether
successful, those that slept heard the song as part
of their dreams.
And who was to say where the song ended, and
the dream began?
* * * * *
Sated from its gory feast, the Pack sprawled in
sleep, the effects of hunger abated.
Already the Pack had grown larger, swelled by a
stream of arrivals. Soon the wolves grew restless
again. Slowly, one after another, they rose and gathered
until the singing cry of their leader drove them to
their steady lope. Over heath, and through fen, the
Pack moved as if it now had a deeper purpose. Without
haste, but also without hesitation, hundreds of
shaggy bodies flowed across the land.
Night fell and the Pack did not slow. If anything, its
pace took on a sense of urgency as if it flowed toward
a nearby destination. As the moon climbed higher
into a cloudless sky, illuminating the rugged landscape
with a silvery glow, the Pack filed into a narrow
gulch, and entered a secluded and rocky glen. Finally,
the Pack paused around a bright pool.
Hundreds of wolfish faces gleamed in the reflected
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6
MESSAGE AT MIDNIGHT
AS THE LAST to enter, Tristan swung the heavy
wooden door shut behind him, and bolted it at a
look from his father. The room, even with the great
fire blazing, felt cool and dark. Deer and bearskin
rugs covered the floor, and the long council table of
polished oak dominated the center of the room. A
large wolf ’s head—symbol of the Kendrick clan—
glared across the room from its mount above the fireplace.
The councilors took seats around the table, the
king seated at the head.
The king’s council chamber was the most formal
room in the entire castle. Located at the center of the
keep, it had no windows upon the outside world.
Instead, it drew its light from the fire on the broad
hearth.
Three cantrev lords sat upon one side of the table.
Each of these men presided over a small, rural community,
arbitrating disputes, serving as a spokesman
between the king and the people, and organizing and
commanding a company of men-at-arms in times of
emergency. Lords Dynnatt, Koart, and Nowll ruled
several of the communities within a few hours’ ride
of Caer Corwell, and had arrived early in the day for
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involving sorcery.
“At the time of the Spring Festivals, we learned
more about this threat from the circle of druids. The
druids have determined that the power afoot represents
great danger to the goddess, and thus to our
people. Whatever its nature and powers, we know
only that it is a supreme menace, of mysterious
nature—that it stalks the land even now . . .
“And we know that it is upon Gwynneth.”
Keren paused, letting his listeners absorb the
impact of his words. The room was silent, until Dynnatt
cleared his throat noisily. Tristan cast a sideways
glance at Robyn, and saw that her gaze rested
intently upon the bard. The sight did not please him.
“We now have confirmation,” continued the bard,
“that the Firbolgs are abroad. This in itself is a portent
of great evil, for the Firbolgs have not left the
highlands of Myrloch Vale in over a century. Spies
have also reported a great mustering among the
northmen. Their fleets, apparently, sail to a rendezvous
at Iron Bay, the kingdom of Thelgaar Ironhand.
This is perhaps a hopeful sign, for Ironhand
has agreed to a peace treaty with the High King. His
influence may be able to dissuade the northmen from
all-out war, but we cannot count on this.
“Spies report that the northmen gather at Oman’s
Isle, so Corwell becomes a very tempting target.”
For several moments, no one talked. Tristan, who
had listened more closely to Keren than he usually
did in official meetings, watched his father. He saw
that the king looked older, more weary than the
prince had ever seen him before. Finally, King Byron
Kendrick looked around the council chamber, studying
the eyes of each person seated at the table.
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the meeting with the bard. Robyn and Tristan sat
opposite them. Keren sat at the foot, and a chair at
the king’s right hand remained conspicuously empty.
Arlen would have sat there.
“Pardon the lack of formalities,” said the king. “But
let us get directly to business.”
“Ahem,” interrupted Dynnatt, a burly warrior
whose features disappeared behind shaggy hair and
a bushy beard. He nodded toward Robyn, while looking
at the king.
“Should the maiden be present?” Lord Koart, a
small, vigorous man, asked the question.
“It is my wish that she be here,” replied the king.
“Robyn may play an important role in our efforts to
deal with the crisis. And now, sir?” he concluded, nodding
to Keren.
“Thank you, Your Highness,” responded Keren,
standing. “I only wish I bore happier news.
“A little over a fortnight ago I left Alaron, following
a council with the High King himself. Other messengers
were dispatched to Moray and Snowdown—the
portents indicate that all the lands of the Ffolk are in
danger. But the missive of greatest importance is the
one intended for Gwynneth.
“The High King’s council of sorcerers,” continued
Keren, “became aware of dark magic growing in the
land this winter, pointing toward a summer of turmoil
and direst danger to the Ffolk. The danger
includes the threat of the northmen, but this is not
the paramount danger perceived by the council of
mages.”
The cantrev lords exchanged uneasy looks. The
council of mages earned no love from the Ffolk, who
tended to be very superstitious about matters
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journey with whatever provisions or mounts that I
can provide.”
“My thanks to you, Your Majesty. I shall make
every effort to return under happier circumstances,
and next time to accept your hospitality more graciously.”
“You shall always be welcome. Beyond common
courtesy, I owe you the debt of my children’s lives,
and this I will never forget!” The emotion in the
king’s voice surprised his son.
The council lasted for a few more minutes, as
details of militia units and patrolling districts were
assigned. As soon as they adjourned, the king sent
out messengers to the farther cantrevs, while Keren
went immediately to the stables and prepared to
leave. Tristan and Robyn packed his saddlebags with
an abundance of provisions, and joined him at the
castle gate.
The bard took the prince’s hand in a firm grip, and
studied the young man carefully. “You must be
strong, Prince Tristan, for the weight of a kingdom, I
fear, shall soon fall upon your shoulders,” Keren said
solemnly.
Trtistan started to smile. “You are worthy of the
responsibility, fear not,” the bard continued. When
Tristan chose not to reply, the bard added, “And
remember, above all things, to think. A leader must
be a man of action, but even more so, a man of
thought. And take care of that dog!” Keren smiled, for
he had not been shy in his praise of Canthus.
At last Tristan spoke, warmly. “I will. And be careful
on your journey!” The prince was surprised to find
himself reluctant to say goodbye to the bard— he
wished that he would see the man again.
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Slowly, he rose to his feet.
“I had hoped that the rest of my life would be spent
free from the scourge of war. I see now that this is not
to be.
“Our course of action is simple, and obvious. My
lords—” he spoke now directly to Dynnatt, Koart,
and Nowll—“we must mobilize the cantrevs for war,
Spare only those laborers most essential to the tending
of the flocks and crops. All others must be armed,
and the militia units reformed.
“Be vigilant! Send patrols into the hills and forests,
seeking signs of the Firbolgs. I shall send word to the
farther cantrevs to do the same.” The three lords in
attendance represented only the leaders of the
cantrevs closest to Caer Corwell. Dozens more lay in
the farther reaches of the kingdom. Though their
lords could not reach Corwell in time for this council,
the danger, they all knew, was shared by every community
of Ffolk in Gwynneth.
The king turned to Keren again. “Can you stay
with us for a while? Your presence is appreciated,
and your advice would no doubt be of great aid in our
preparations.”
“With regret, I cannot,” responded the bard.
“Having delivered my message, I must return
immediately to Caer Callidyrr and inform the High
King that I have completed my mission. The fact
that the Firbolgs are abroad is no doubt unknown to
him.”
The king nodded solemnly in understanding. The
bard’s mission, he had suspected, would call for him
to return to Caer Callidyrr on Westshae.
“I thank you for making this journey on our
behalf. You are welcome to outfit yourself for the
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gence in an almost uncanny fashion.
Canthus forged gladly into icy water, or thorny
thickets, with no thought but the completion of his
task, be it the retrieval or flushing of game. When
retrieving, he brought the game to the prince with
nary the slightest toothmark.
Tristan also spent long hours with his bow, striving
to gain a mastery of the weapon he had never shown
for Arlen. Although he showed marked improvement,
he remained far from expert.
As the prince’s and dog’s training progressed, the
Ffolk of Corwell began making preparations for war.
Able-bodied young men from the many cantrevs of
the kingdom arrived at the castle, swelling its garrison
to several hundred men-at-arms. Although many
more men and women could be mustered in an emergency,
the king did not deem the situation dire
enough yet to ignore the tending of crops and animals.
The Ffolk of the cantrevs nonetheless were
instructed to keep their weapons handy, and the
king’s army could swell tenfold in a matter of a few
days should the situation demand drastic action.
One day as Tristan was practicing shooting from a
moving horse, a messenger came from his father,
demanding his presence in the king’s private study.
When the prince reported there, the king gestured to
him to enter and shut the door.
Tristan wondered, apprehensively, what his father
wanted. He expected a harangue about some irresponsible
antic he had committed, or perhaps an
admonishment to take his training more seriously.
The king turned to regard the prince carefully.
With a sigh, the older man walked to a chair and sat
heavily. Tristan felt himself quaking inside, as he
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“And you, my lady,” Keren said, turning to Robyn.
“Keep this headstrong young man out of trouble, if
you can. And keep asking questions—there’s an
answer for you somewhere.”
“Now, I must be off!” The bard leaped to his saddle
and urged his horse down the castle road. The black,
soaring speck of Sable circled over him. The strains
of a song wafted through the air, and Tristan and
Robyn knew that the bard sang a traveling song, a
song of farewell.
* * * * *
Daryth resisted all attempts to restrict him to his
bed, protesting that he felt fine and only needed
exercise to be back in excellent shape. Within a few
days, he returned to daily training activities with the
royal hounds.
Canthus continued his education under Daryth’s
tutelage. He learned all the standard guarding and
hunting commands, performing to either vocal or
hand commands. The Calishite then began to work
the dog into more challenging tasks. The moorhound
soon learned to knock down a victim without biting,
and to stand guard at an assigned place for a long
period of time, without his attention straying.
In the meantime, Tristan had worked with the
dogs for long hours each day, and came to appreciate
more than ever the might and intelligence of the
moorhound he had acquired from Pawldo, The dog
seemed to grasp tactics, such as silent movement and
the importance of surprise, as quickly as a human
would, and his keen instincts augmented this intelli-
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Kendricks alive. May its fortune bless you as well!”
Tristan looked at his father in silence, a mixture of
emotions seething within him—guilt, anger at being
made to feel guilty, pride that his father was asking
something of him, fear that he might not be able to
live up to it, and joy at the thought of wearing the
beautifully crafted mail armor.
Finally, he could only say, “I shall try to wear it
with honor.”
“I trust that you shall,” said the king.
“Father—everything I have ever done, or tried to
do, you have belittled as unfitting of my station.
Nothing has ever been good enough for you! I . . . I
will try to do as you ask—to command a company of
your men. I am just sorry that you don’t—from what
you say—expect me to succeed.”
The king looked genuinely sad, but did not
respond, which only increased Tristan’s anger. “You
will take over the company—mostly swordsman, a
few archers—tomorrow.” His face grew harsh. “Perhaps
I should be glad that war is coming—it might
make a prince out of you!”
Cursing silently, Tristan left his father’s study. He
stalked to the stable, and saddled one of the horses.
“Where are you going?” Robyn’s voice came from
behind him.
“For a ride!” he snapped, and then turned to her
guiltily. “I’m sorry. I just had a ‘talk’with my father.”
“Mind if I ride along?”
“I’d like that.”
They quickly saddled a second horse, and cantered
together down the castle road. From there, they
struck out across the moors, giving the horses free
rein.
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always did around his father.
“My son, you have made it clear to me, many times
in the past, that you care little for the mantle of royalty
that will some day be yours.”
Tristan started to respond, but his father held up
his hand.
“Let me finish. The current danger confronting the
Kingdom makes your cares insignificant. You will
have to begin to accept the responsibilities of your
position. You have no choice in the matter.”
“Father, I have no wish to avoid—”
“Then why is it you have time for nothing more
than drinking, wenching, and tending your hounds?
And you get my best man killed on a fool’s mission!”
Tristan’s face stung as if he had been slapped.
There was enough truth to the words to bring the hot
flush of shame to his cheeks.
“I want you to take command of the town’s company.
You will train with them, and lead them. This
would have been Arlen’s task.” For a moment his
father’s voice softened unexpectedly. “Tristan, I need
your help.”
The king rose and went to a chest in the corner of
the room. Opening it, he pulled out a shirt of shining
steel mail. He rubbed it gently, then turned, holding
it up.
“This was my father’s, Tristan, and my own battle
armor. Now, I should like to see you wear it. I fear
that this summer will again give us cause to test it,”
said the king. For a moment, Tristan saw the courage
and determination that must have been commonplace
in his father’s character, long ago.
“Thus far,” added the king with a smile that did not
carry to his eyes, “it has managed to keep the
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“Not much,” he responded, “They wouldn’t tell me
anything—Arlen, my father, Gretta. You came to
the Caer Corwell as a baby, I remember, when I was
about two or three. I remember Gretta telling me
that your parents had died, and that my father was
going to raise you as his ward. I think I asked
where you were from, and she told me ‘Corwell,’ but
I couldn’t get any more information out of her.
“At the time,” Tristan concluded with a grin, “I was
just disappointed that you weren’t a boy!”
Robyn playfully slapped his shoulder, but then
turned serious again. “I have asked Father about
this, but he never tells me any more than that—what
you just told me. I am convinced that my parents’
identity is somehow tied into my . . . trick, or whatever
it was.”
“Why have you suddenly grown curious about this
again?”
“Because of that fight with the Firbolgs. I think
what happened with the trees might make more
sense if I knew more about myself!” With a grimace
of frustration, she lapsed into silence. Tristan did not
disturb her thoughts.
Finally, as they neared the castle, Tristan admitted,
“You know, it has been nice to ride with you. Perhaps
we could try to do this together more often?”
“I’d like that,” Robyn smiled, “Except it sounds like
you’ll be busy training your company.”
“Dammit! I’m tempted to ignore his orders!” Tristan
scowled. “The king as much as told me he
expected me to fail.”
“Stop that!” said Robyn, in disgust. “Why don’t you
try to understand his point of view, for once, instead
of thinking only about what you want?” Angry, but
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After several hours of silent, albeit pleasant riding,
Tristan turned to his companion. “There’s something
I’ve wanted to ask . . . but we haven’t had an opportunity
to talk for some time.”
The maiden turned to him, riding easily, and raised
her eyebrows. “Yes?”
“Did you ever figure out what you did to wrap that
Firbolg in the trees that way?”
A peculiar expression flickered across her face—
Tristan couldn’t tell if she was amused or annoyed.
“I’ve tried to understand,” said Robyn thoughtfully.
“I looked up, and saw that thing next to you, and all I
could think about was how much I wanted you to
live. I screamed—I guess I panicked—and the next
thing I knew, the trees bent down and grabbed him.”
“But how?” the prince persisted. “It seemed like
magic, and I’ve never known you to have any interest
in sorcery.”
“I don’t!” Robyn replied, with a shudder. “I’ll leave
the sorcerers to the High King’s council!
“Still,” she continued, “that did not seem sorcerous
to me. It was more as if the trees reached out to help
me.”
She turned to the woods, pensively, and watched a
pair of squirrels chatter to each other on a high limb.
Then she laughed, and Tristan asked why.
“That fellow ate a pile of nuts that his lady had her
eyes on. She’s really letting him have it!” Suddenly
she looked at him in surprise.
“That’s exactly what was happening!” she insisted.
“I could understand them!” She looked back at the
squirrels, and then turned thoughtful.
“Tristan,” she asked, regarding him softly. “What
do you know of my parents?”
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low hill, across the valley from the Iron Keep, and
from this vantage point he could see for miles in all
directions. Never in his, or even his grandfather’s,
lifetimes had such a host of northmen mustered to
war together.
His men bore Grunnarch’s crimson standard
proudly as they marched from their encampment to
the sea. The Bloodriders, Grunnarch’s personal
guard, rode their proud horses at the lead of the
column, while thousands of footmen marched stolidly
behind. The Bloodriders were undoubtedly the finest
group of mounted warriors among the forces of the
northmen, and Grunnarch’s heart swelled with pride
as they cantered past.
The armies of the northmen wore little in the way
of standardized uniforms, and this fact caused the
Bloodriders to stand out distinctly from the rest of
the force. About a hundred in number, the Riders
wore bright scarlet cloaks over heavy black chain
mail. Each rode a powerful warhorse the color of
black ink, and carried a double-edged battle-axe that
weaker men could not have lifted off the ground.
Suddenly, one horse broke from the file, carrying
its redcaped Rider up the slope to Grunnarch. Laric,
smiling cruelly, sprang to the ground.
“The men are fit, but they need some killing to
keep them so,” reported the captain, licking his full
lips.
“The loading proceeds well,” said Grunnarch.
“The Iron King has asked to see me. I ride now to
Iron Keep,” said the captain, remounting.
“Why does he want to see you?” grunted the Red
King.
“I don’t know, but I’m curious.”
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not wanting to spoil the afternoon, the prince turned
his gaze to the firth. However, he could feel Robyn’s
presence, like a moth feels the light, strongly at his
back. She said nothing, and they rode the rest of the
way to the castle in silence.
That night, Tristan dreamed of Robyn, and of Firbolgs.
It was not a frightening dream so much as a
frustrating one. Giants stood around the pair, taunting.
He moved to protect the lass, and the trees bent
around his own limbs, restraining him. As he
watched, helpless, Robyn muttered arcane phrases
and the Firbolgs fled, shrieking in terror. Long after
they ran, the prince heard her voice, speaking as
through a cloaking haze.
* * * * *
Even the brilliant sunshine could not dispel the
shadows that seemed to linger around the Iron Keep.
That towering black fortress absorbed the light without
reflection, creating a splash of gloomy darkness
on the hill over Iron Bay.
The area now bustled with activity, as horses, provisions,
and weapons were ferried from shore to the
longships anchored in the bay, or loaded onto those
smaller vessels that had been drawn onto the beach.
Quickly, the northmen struck their camps, carting
their equipment to the shore in a long but orderly
procession. Columns of troops stretched for miles
from the bay as the outer camps straggled toward
the sea.
Grunnarch the Red watched his own army mobilize
with a deep flush of pleasure. He stood upon a
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Ironhand. He had indeed seemed to take on a new
and especially warlike personality following his
change of heart.
The plan nonetheless served as a fine proposal for
the reduction and elimination of the only remaining
kingdom of the Ffolk upon Gwynneth: Corwell. A
massive fleet, led by Thelgaar in command, would
sail through the Strait of the Leviathan to Corwell
Firth, and there land an army at the very foot of Corwell
Castle. This force would be sufficiently powerful
to reduce that fortress, and thus shatter any attempt
at organized resistance.
The force Grunnarch was to lead would be nearly
as big, but would sail down the eastern shore of
Gwynneth, landing an army at the opposite end of
the island from Thelgaar. Grunnarch’s army would
then march across the island, taking slaves and
booty from each community as it advanced, finally
meeting Thelgaar’s force at Caer Corwell. Grunnarch’s
task would be difficult, for the Ffolk were
savage fighters in defense of their homelands. The
presence of the huge northern fleet in Corwell Firth,
however, should prevent King Kendrick from sending
reinforcements eastward. Nonetheless, the terrain
was rugged, and Grunnarch’s army would need
to level many sturdy rural cantrevs in the course of
his advance. The prospect of many heated combats,
far from dismaying him, caused Grunnarch’s blood to
race in anticipation.
He stayed upon the hill, watching the loading, for
the remainder of the day. A steady stream of men
carried the supplies to the beached longships. The
horses of the Bloodriders were divided among ten
ships, and these vessels would sail at the head of
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“Just remember who your loyalty is owed to,”
growled Grunnarch.
Laric’s laugh held a trace of a sneer as he whirled
the black horse and raced down the slope.
For a moment, the Red King pondered Thelgaar
Ironhand’s change of policy. Strange, that. Thelgaar
had left the council as the lone advocate of peace,
pledging not to lend his considerable force to the
summer’s raiding. While his refusal had not dimmed
the enthusiasm of the other northern kings for war, it
certainly had limited their options. Thelgaar’s fleet
numbered perhaps half of all the other fleets combined.
The following morning, the king had emerged from
his chambers and pledged his followers to war. The
announcement was made almost in a frenzy, and
Thelgaar Ironhand had retained this fever pitch
during the preparations that followed.
Thelgaar had driven his troops mercilessly
through the necessary outfittings. This was fortunate,
on the one hand, since his men had not prepared
themselves for a summer of war. On the other
hand, his intensity had an unsettling effect upon the
men, since they had never seen their revered leader
behave so.
Grunnarch felt a momentary flash of relief at the
fact that his forces had not been ordered to accompany
Thelgaar’s in the initial phases of the attack.
The Iron King had imperiously informed the other
northern kings of the plan of attack, and the
assembled kings had accepted the plan with little
argument. In part, this had been because the plan
was sound, but also, the kings had been reluctant
to argue with the imposing presence of Thelgaar
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was disappearing around the corner, so he hurried to
catch up.
“What is it?” he whispered, but she did not answer.
Instead, she turned into another hall, walking as fast
as the flickering candle would allow. In a moment,
she stopped before a heavy door and quickly pulled it
open.
Inside spiralled the long stairway leading to the
platform atop Caer Corwell’s high tower. Breathlessly,
the pair climbed the stairs, emerging minutes
later through the trap door at the top.
The cloudless night sky spread above and around
them, sparkling with a wealth of stars. The night air
was cool. The moon had not yet risen, so the prince
guessed the time at about two o’clock. Robyn extinguished
the candle and moved to the parapet, gazing
intently into the eastern sky. Nervously drawing his
sword, the prince stepped to her side.
“What is it? Should we sound the alarm? Why did
you bring me up here in the middle of the night?” The
tone of each question grew sharper as the prince’s
anxiety mounted.
“Please be quiet!” Robyn whispered, and the prince
saw that she was concentrating deeply, still staring
at the sky.
Puzzled, and a little annoyed, Tristan nonetheless
did as she asked. He too stared eastward, and for
long moments neither made any sound. Suddenly,
Robyn spoke a single word.
“There!”
Following her pointing finger, the prince could see
nothing against the starry backdrop. Then, for an
instant, a star blinked out, and then on again. Several
times this happened, and the prince realized
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Grunnarch’s fleet. The rest of the vessels, some hundred
and fifty strong, carried the vast bulk of his
army. By late afternoon, the preparations had been
completed, and Grunnarch rode slowly down to the
docks. Thelgaar would hold a final council with the
kings of the northmen that night, Grunnarch felt certain.
Before dawn the following day, the fleets would
ride the outgoing tide from Iron Bay, hoist sails, and
begin the journey to war.
* * * * *
“Wake up, Tristan! Please! It’s important!”
Dimly, he shifted from his dream to real life. He
realized that Robyn stood over him, holding a slim
candle. She prodded his chest again, and he blinked.
“What is it?” he mumbled, waking enough to sit up
in bed. He saw darkness through his window. Robyn
stood beside him in a flowing nightgown of white.
The cloth made a stark contrast against her black
hair, and the prince thought, absently, that she
looked alluring. Very alluring.
“Come with me!” Her voice was urgent. “Something’s
happening here tonight. I don’t know what it
is!”
Before Tristan had climbed from his bed, she left
the room and stood impatiently in the hall. He
started to follow her, but she gestured toward his
weapon, draped over a chair.
“Bring your sword!”
Without questioning, he strapped the weapon
around his waist. As he stepped into the hall, Robyn
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that wrongness was manifest.
Stepping back, the unicorn again regarded the vine.
Suddenly, the strand moved, lashing toward his forehoof.
Leaping away, the unicorn reared high. At that
moment, another vine sailed from the underbrush
and a clasping loop settled around Kamerynn’s neck.
Now, creatures emerged from cover and attacked
They charged close to throw more clasping vines.
Kamerynn’s attackers looked like humans, but were
much too large.
A sharp hoof lashed out as Kamerynn reared to
meet the charge. One of the attackers fell, its thick
skull crushed. Another twisted around to the unicorn’s
flank, but the powerful neck swiveled to meet
the attack. Lowering his head, Kamerynn lunged,
feeling his ivory horn drive deeply into the creature’s
body.
But the attackers were too many. They grappled the
unicorn’s body, first pressing it back, and then bearing
it to the ground. In minutes Kamerynn was
securely hobbled and blindfolded.
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that a flying creature approached. At the same time,
he felt Robyn sway slightly and lean against the
parapet for support.
“You can put that away,” she said finally, gesturing
to his sword. “The danger I sensed is distant, and will
not menace us tonight.”
This time Tristan ignored her, holding the blade
ready and squinting to make out the mysterious
creature in the sky. In moments he heard the faint
whirr of feathery wings, and suddenly the inky form
of a huge falcon settled to the parapet before Robyn.
The prince recognized Sable, but stifled his
announcement as he watched the young woman
stare intently into the great bird’s unblinking eyes.
In moments, she turned to him.
“It’s Keren! He’s in terrible danger and sent Sable
to get help. Tristan, we must go to him! We have to
hurry!”
* * * * *
Kamerynn the Unicorn galloped for many days. He
thundered across flowered meadows, and raised
shimmering curtains of spray as he splashed through
shallow streams.
Finally the unicorn entered a region of Myrloch
Vale previously unknown to him—a dim region of
fens and fetid marsh. He moved more cautiously now,
for he knew that his destination was near. Abruptly,
he paused, staring intently at a snakelike vine laying
casually across his path. Kamerynn’s pink nostrils
quivered as he checked the air for any menacing
scents. His caution turned to alarm as he realized
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7
THE FENS OF THE FALLON
THERE HE IS!” Robyn’s voice called Tristan’s attention
to a small black dot, soaring among the
clouds ahead of them. The maiden kicked the foaming
flanks of her steed, and the gray gelding sprang
forward.
“Isn’t she ever going to rest?” gasped Pawldo,
struggling to retain his seating upon his lurching
pony.
“I hope so,” answered Daryth, cantering smoothly
alongside. “But I doubt it will happen while there’s a
glimmer of daylight left!”
The great falcon soared eagerly eastward, and then
circled slowly as the riders below tried to keep up.
“I can’t believe we’re following a bird!” muttered
Pawldo.
“Are you sure she knows what she’s doing?” asked
Daryth, indicating Robyn. The king’s ward was galloping
ahead, oblivious to the grumblings of the
other riders.
“I trust her,” replied Tristan.
Before dawn, they had awakened Daryth and outfitted
themselves for the journey. Canthus and several
other hounds accompanied them. They had
146
brought four extra horses in order to hold to a rapid
pace. Leaving a message for the king, they had
ridden forth, delaying only to pass through Lowhill,
where Pawldo had not hesitated to join the group.
Now they rode steadily in the saddle the whole of
each day, from the first glimmerings of dawn through
the final darkness of night. They stopped for the
night where sunset found them.
The coat of chain mail rested comfortably on the
prince’s shoulders, reminding him of his father’s
wish. Idly, Tristan wondered who would command
the Corwell company now. He tried not to think
about his father’s anger upon his return. But he
had to trust Robyn; somewhere, Keren was in deep
trouble.
They paused, late in the afternoon of the fourth
day, to exchange horses and stretch their stiffening
muscles. While the men grunted in anguish and
painfully tried to work the kinks out of their legs and
backs, Robyn stared silently skyward. Finally, as
they mounted again, she spoke.
“He’s turning to the north. He means for us to
follow up one of these valleys. I think he’s leading us
to Myrloch Vale.”
“Hold it a minute!” Pawldo’s voice squeaked with
indignation despite his fatigue. “Myrloch? That place
smacks of sorceryl Best leave it to the Llewyrr—it’s
no place for humans or halflings.”
“I shall follow Sable,” Robyn announced quietly,
mounting and kicking her horse forward.
“And so shall I,” said the prince, although Robyn’s
mention of Myrloch had brought a chill to his own
heart.
“I think sorcery is kind of interesting,” admitted
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“Very few people—mostly Ffolk who are hunters,
or shepherds—people who like the wild places more
than they like companionship,” answered Tristan.
“Aye. And we’re not far from the lands of the
Llweyrr!” declared Pawldo, looking over his shoulders
and suppressing a shudder. “I sense magict”
“There is no danger here,” Robyn said quietly, staring
into the small campfire.
“Still, I’ll vote with ’Itistan to keep guard. I’ll take
the first watch.” Daryth climbed stiffly to his feet and
looked around.
“As you wish,” replied Robyn, shrugging. “I’ll take a
turn at guard, too.”
The others exchanged uneasy glances, but no one
said anything.
They remained vigilant, in shifts, but the night
passed without disturbance. They ate cold bread and
cheese for breakfast, but even before they finished,
the black falcon had launched himself northward
from his perch in a tall pine, decreeing that his followers
quickly take to the trail again.
Their route climbed steadily, toward the crest of
the ridge separating the kingdom of Corwell from the
realms of the Llewyrr—Myrloch Vale. As the morning
progressed they encountered patches of snow
still lying in shadowed places throughout the woods.
The higher they climbed, the more snow-covered
ground they saw. By noon, they plodded through wet,
slushy snow with every step. In places, melting drifts
still three or four feet deep covered the path.
After several hours, they finally emerged from the
trees onto the rocky upper slopes of the highlands.
These rolling mountaintops, subjected to the continual
light of the sun, had long ago lost their snowy
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Daryth. “Do you really think we’ll see some magic?”
“We’ll be lucky to ride out in the same bodies we
take in!” grumbled Pawldo, but he nonetheless
mounted and accompanied the others. The three had
to gallop for several minutes to catch up with Robyn.
They found her, halted, in the center of the road,
examining a narrow trail to the side.
She looked up at their approach. “This looks like a
trail. With luck, it’ll take us over the highlands into
Myrloch.”
“Some luck,” grunted Pawldo softly, as they left the
road, passing along the path in single file.
The narrow path wound among vast trunks of oak,
hickory, and yew—a place with the look of a forest
that had never felt the woodsman’s axe.
For the rest of the day they moved steadily along
the shaded path. Ever upward it climbed, moving
among great piles of boulders, fording shallow
streams, and always holding the general bearing
of north. In places the forest opened into small
meadows, and they caught sight of the great
falcon, circling impatiently as it waited for the
time-consuming passage of the earthbound
humans.
Finally darkness provided them a respite from the
long hours in the saddle. The moon, nearly full, cast
glaring shadows among the huge trunks surrounding
their camp. They built a small fire, taking care
that it smoked little and that its light was screened.
“We’d better keep watches,” suggested the prince.
“This is still part of the Kingdom of Corwell, but with
Firbolgs and whatever else abroad—”
“Who lives here?” asked Daryth, looking around at
the pristine wilderness of their surroundings.
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so seriously. “Well, it’s more legend than fact,” he
said. “When humans first came to the Moonshaes,
the Llewyrr—the elvenfolk—lived on all of the
islands. As humankind spread, the Llewyrr retreated
eventually to the valley just beyond this final ridge—
Myrloch Vale.”
“The Llewyrr do not brook trespassers lightly,”
added Pawldo. “The small folk have tales that’ll
shrivel your ears—the Llewyrr have a ring of magic
around the place that’ll fry anyone trying to pass it.
Their wizards! No one knows what dark secrets of
sorcery they practice! They’ll turn us into snalls, or
worse—if the barrier leaves any parts of us to turn!”
Robyn laughed—the first laughter any of them had
heard this long day. “It’s really a little less harmful
than all of that!”
“Since when are you such an expert?” Pawldo shot
back, insulted that the veracity of his exaggerations
had been questioned.
Robyn looked surprised. “I don’t know where I
became such an expert, but I don’t think we have
much to worry about—not from the Llewyrr,
anyway.”
“What should we worry about?” asked the prince.
“That I’m not so sure of . . . although Firbolgs come
to mind, as a place to start.”
“At least Firbolgs we can see!” grumbled Pawldo,
turning his back to the fire and curling up to sleep.
“I’ll take the middle watch,” he added.
“I’ll take the first,” volunteered Tristan, climbing
stiffly to his feet and poking into the trees for more
firewood. The others soon slept, and the prince stood
a lonely vigil. Soon Canthus joined him, and the two
paced steadily around the camp. They seemed to be
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mantle. Now the companions made good time as the
trail wound even higher. Still the falcon soared far
ahead.
Robyn rode beside Daryth for much of the afternoon,
talking and, occasionally, laughing. Tristan
rode at the rear of the party, with Pawldo. He wanted
to join them, but felt reluctant to intrude. Robyn and
Daryth seemed to share some private agreement.
Pawldo was good company, but the hours passed very
slowly.
By nightfall, they could see their destination: a
high pass in the jagged ridgeline. The trail twisted
treacherously among lower peaks before emerging
along a sheer cliff and following a narrow ledge to
the summit. Sable, an almost invisible speck, hovered
over the pass.
They camped in a small clump of miniature pines
that somehow managed to survive at this high altitude.
The pines sheltered one end of a small lake in a
narrow valley. Great sheets of ice floated in the
water, and a freezing wind howled through the small
vale, but this scant shelter seemed to be the only
place not exposed directly to the elements.
The pines provided enough wood for a small fire,
and a three-sided niche among the boulders gave
respite from the persistent wind. They ate without
enthusiasm, and sat quietly staring into the fire.
Finally, Daryth broke the silence.
“What is it about this Myrloch Vale? Why do I feel
you all just oozing apprehension? It’s as if you don’t
expect to come out of it again!” His bluntness took
the party by surprise.
Tristan thought back to the tales he had learned as
a child, surprised to realize that he had taken them
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this part,” called Tristan.
Robyn reined in and turned, as if to argue, but then
she studied the terrain before them.
“All right,” she answered. “But hurry!”
Moving as quickly as possible, which still meant
picking footings with great care, they moved along
the narrow ledge, often kicking free stones that
seemingly tumbled for minutes before striking the
jagged rocks far below.
Finally, at mid-day, they turned from the narrow
ledge and walked into the high, windswept pass.
Behind them stretched miles of rocky highlands and
dense forests. The pastoral farmlands of Corwell
were invisible in the haze of distance.
And ahead of them, seen by each for the first time,
lay Myrloch Vale.
The glimmering blue waters of Myrloch itself were
barely visible. Many smaller lakes dotted the nearer
landscape, and rows upon rows of craggy peaks
stretched away to the right and left. The trail to the
north of the pass descended steeply across a wide,
snowy slope, into a lush forest of aspen and pine.
Broad meadows, bright with flowers, broke the green
canopy of the forests. Sparkling waterfalls, too
numerous to count, spilled from the highlands into
the vale, feeding the many brooks that created a silvery
network of waterways connecting the many
lakes.
In one place only, below them and to their right, did
Myrloch Vale seem unhealthy. A sprawling region of
spindly, leafless tree trunks surrounded a marshy
fen. Numerous ponds spotted the area, but did not
seem to sparkle with the sunlight as usually did the
water elsewhere. Much of the fen was obscured by
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the only living creatures in this barren stretch of
highlands—at least Tristan hoped they were.
The moorhound never seemed to sleep. He paced
with Tristan as the prince paced, or sat alertly next
to him when he rested. Canthus sat as an equal,
however—he never rested his head upon the prince’s
knee, or flopped carelessly at his feet, as would any
other dog. His posture erect, he perked his ears at
any faint sound, and constantly sniffed the faint
breeze for information.
Tristan sighed, and turned to look at Robyn. She
slept soundly, nearly buried by a massive fur blanket,
her black hair spread like a veil across her face.
Then the prince’s gaze shifted to the slender, swarthy
Calishite, tossing unevenly on the other side of the
fire.
What did that wonderful girl—woman!—think of
these men, her closest friends? Which did she
prefer? Desperately, Tristan wanted to know. Robyn
stretched, luxuriously, and slowly rolled over, and
for a moment Tristan was tempted to wake her and
take her in his arms. He chuckled wryly as he pictured
her reaction, and turned away to resume his
watch.
Each of them took their turn at the watch, and
Canthus accompanied them all, but the night
passed without incident. They broke camp with the
dawn, picking their way slowly up the last treacherous
slopes leading to the pass. Fortunately, the
slope faced primarily south, and the snow had long
since melted away. Though the path was still
treacherous, at least they had the security of walking
along solid ground.
“We’d better dismount and walk the horses over
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The great slab of wet snow picked up speed rapidly,
and Tristan lost the reins of his horse as he fell. The
slab began to break apart, and the prince fell
between the huge chunks of soggy snow, struggling
to keep his head free of the choking mess.
Like a plummeting sled, the snow began to pick up
speed, gathering more wet snow as it fell. The prince
caught a glimpse of the shelf of snow above him
cracking free, dropping his companions into the avalanche
behind him.
Snow smashed into Tristan’s face, blinding him,
and filling his mouth and nose. Desperately, he
scraped it away, still kicking madly to stay on top of
the stuff. He got a quick look at the smooth slope
before him—at the bottom, a clear blue lake glimmered
placidly.
Conscious for the first time of the real weight of his
chain mail, Tristan knew that the lake meant a
freezing, suffocating death, for there was no way he
could swim in the metal garb.
He tried to scramble to the side, but the rolling surface
gave him no footing. Clawing at the snow with
his bare hands, he felt his skin scrape, and he cried
out in pain as a fingernail was torn off.
Twisting, he pulled his sword, and drove the tip
deep into the snow, cursing as the blade slipped from
the icy crust. But gradually, the momentum of the
slide slowed as the slope grew less steep. Finally, he
managed to stick the blade of his sword deep enough
into the subsurface to drag him to a halt. Snow still
tumbled past him, and he heard it splashing into the
lake below.
Tristan’s gray mare slid past, screaming in terror
and scrambling for a foothold. The creature splashed
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thick growths of tangled brush, and slumping, mossy
trees.
Sable circled away from the pass in a long dive. The
falcon glided straight toward the boggy fens.
As the companions passed over the summit, staring
in awe at the scene before them, each felt a little
prickle across the scalp, as if lightning was prepared
to strike nearby. Yet the sky was cloudless.
“Magic!” barked Pawldo, nervously scratching the
back of his neck. “Mark my words—we’ll all be salamanders
if we take another step into this accursed
place!”
Nonetheless, he accompanied his friends through
the pass, looking suspiciously about, as if expecting
an attack at any moment. Nothing happened, however,
and he joined the inspection of the slope before
them as the group searched for a way down. The sun
had not yet cleared the north-facing slope of the
ridge of its snow cover, and a white carpet lay thick
across the highlands. Tristan could easily imagine
the deep drifts they would encounter when they
reached the woods.
Robyn started boldly forward, leading two horses,
and the others fell into file behind her. They alternated
as leader, and for several hours they made
good time, dropping across the slope toward a steeper
area where the highlands fell to the timberline.
Tristan, hurrying up to join Robyn, said, “All of you
wait a minute while I check this snow.”
“Wait!” cried Robyn. “It’s too weak to hold—”
Before she had finished her warning he had
already felt the snow shift under his feet.With a loud
crack, the surface slipped to the side and crumbled
onto the long, steep slope, carrying Tristan with it.
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looking up the slope they had descended so precipitously.
“If we’re going to leave Myrloch Vale, it’ll have
to be by a different route!”
The others, too, looked up the steep slope and were
silent, until Robyn, sounding almost cheerful, said,
“At least not until the snow melts. And that won’t be
for a couple more months.”
“Cheerful thought,” moaned Pawldo. “I knew we
should—”
“There’s Sable!” cried Robyn, cutting short the
halfling’s lament. “He’s not far away!”
Tristan realized that their slide, while dangerous,
had carried them in several minutes over ground
that would have taken the rest of the day to cross by
more conventional means. The great falcon circled
several miles away, still over the fens they had seen
from the summit.
“Let’s go,” the prince suggested, and they quickly
adjusted their gear to resume the march.
The snow cover diminished as they picked a
steadily descending trail among a lush forest of
aspens. In several hours, they dropped more than a
thousand feet, and soon walked along a dry dirt trail.
But soon the aspens withered and thinned, and the
wildflowers became nonexistent. The path dropped
farther, finally ending at the edge of a murky pond.
All around sprawled a wasteland of fetid pools, rank
grasses, and soggy turf. Occasional copses of stunted
trees broke the landscape, but even these looked
scraggly and unhealthy.
“Let’s stop and camp,” suggested Tristan.
“Hear, hear!” agreed the halfling. “You won’t get me
into those fens at night! I smell sorcery.”
“We must go on,” pleaded Robyn, “for Keren’s sake!
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into the icy water and disappeared under tons of
heavy snow. The slide had narrowed, and the prince
now lay just outside its path. Exhausted and barely
conscious, he saw Robyn tumble limply past. As the
snow carried her into the lake, however, she sprang
free and splashed into the water, well away from the
avalanche. Swimming strongly, she made her way to
shore.
And then his other companions passed, seemingly
in a single mass of horses, humans—and halfling.
Pawldo clung to the neck of his pony as the animal
hit the water and swam away. Daryth and the other
horses stopped close to the water’s edge as the slide’s
momentum finally dissipated.
“Are you all right?” called the Calishite up the
hill.
“I think so,” replied Tristan. He saw Robyn climb
from the lake, and the rest of the horses swim to
shore, Pawldo still clinging desperately to his pony.
“Have you seen the dogs?”
“No,” answered Daryth, concerned. “Wait—look up
there!”
Tristan turned to see the hounds bounding down
the slope, next to the path of the slide. They had
somehow managed to break free of the avalanche
while it was still high upon the mountain, and now
made their way to the companions.
They had lost only one horse—Tristan’s—in the
slide, but all of the prince’s extra clothing had been
strapped to the unfortunate steed. Robyn pulled several
woolen cloaks from her saddlebags. Though the
material was still sodden, they were able to huddle
underneath them and gradually feel warm.
“One thing’s for certain,” announced the prince,
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then it moved away, drifting deeper into the fens.
Hurrying, he followed. The light dipped and floated
through a thicket, and the prince tore at the brush in
his eagerness to get through. Canthus, whining, followed.
Tristan burst free from the thicket and lunged into
a clearing, Canthus bounding beside him. Suddenly,
he felt clutching mire close around his ankles, then
his knees, then his waist. With a strangled gasp of
panic, the prince turned to flee, but felt the clutching
muck rise across his stomach toward his chest.
Canthus, surprisingly, bounded across the surface
of the mire, only to pause and look back curiously at
the prince. Dropping his sword, Tristan tried to
swim, clawing desperately with his hands, but they
moved too slowly to help. The apprehension he had
felt had changed abruptly to fear, fear that the charm
of his life had ended. Choking, he felt cold slime enter
his mouth.
The prince’s mind noted, as if it were a matter of no
import, that the muck had no taste, nor could he
smell it. Squeezing, he felt it slide through his fingers,
and then fade. He reached around freely, and
realized that he was not sinking in some stinking
bog. Instead, he lay upon a patch of dry ground.
Suddenly a chittering voice, sounding only a few
feet away, broke into a volley of giggles. Overcome
with laughter, the creature nonetheless managed to
spit out a few words,
“Oh my . . . that was splendid! Hee, hee—Oh, perfectly
marvelous!”
Looking around, the prince could not see the
speaker.
“Oh, oh! If only you could have seen the look in
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It can’t be much farther!”
“They’re right,” said Daryth, nodding to Pawldo
and Tristan. “It would be madness to enter that
swamp in the dark of night.”
Robyn turned away, and for a moment they wondered
if she would plunge into the fens without
them. Then, she sighed and looked back.
“You’re right. Why don’t we try to build a little fire
and dry out? But we move at first light, all right?”
The others agreed, and they set about making
camp. Tristan built a small fire to dry out soggy
clothes and warm chilled bones. As always, they
divided the night into watches, and Tristan again
took the first shift.
His nerves on edge, the prince called Canthus to
him and walked slowly around the perimeter of their
small camp. Tristan had always felt that, somehow,
he led a charmed existence, that he need fear nothing—
except his father. But now, more than ever
before, he felt a sense of apprehension—a certainty
that something, or someone, watched from beyond
the circle of light.
And he didn’t like it!
Gripping his sword, Tristan strode back and forth,
staring into the encloaking darkness. Even the stars
seemed dimmed, as if a thin haze filtered their light
on this nervewracking night.
Then he saw a flicker of movement.
Freezing, he stared at the spot, and again saw a
glimmer of light. Canthus, too, saw it, and growled
deep in his chest. Tristan, his sword drawn, moved
toward the spot, feeling a strange attraction. As
stealthily as he could, he picked his way across the
wet ground, He seemed to draw close to the light, but
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intensity that allowed no man to question his
authority, and so the men mounted the rams, and the
grumbling came only in whispered huddles.
And still Laric had not returned from the Iron
Keep.
Grunnarch made his way to a large bonfire at
nightfall, for there Thelgaar had summoned the
kings of the northmen for a last council of war. He
found Raag Hammerstaad and the other kings present.
Laric, too, stood beside the great blaze, but he
ignored his liege lord. His attention remained fixed
upon the person of the Iron King.
Thelgaar stood before the fire, flames casting
orange and red flashes of light over him. As Grunnarch
reached the circle of kings, Thelgaar fixed him
with an intent gaze. Grunnarch suppressed a shudder,
thinking that the bonfire paled in companson to
the raging intensity of the Iron King’s stare.
“You, King of Norland,” began Thelgaar, “have a
most important task in this undertaking.”
Grunnarch noticed that Thelgaar spoke to him as
he would speak to a vassal, not a peer. He nevertheless
listened quietly, for something about the Iron
King’s manner forbade resistance.
“Here is Gwynneth,” announced Thelgaar. Grunnarch
saw that he had sketched a crude map into the
sand at his feet. “The men of Norland and Norheim
shall sail here,” he ordered, pointing to a spot on the
eastern coast of the island.
“You will land here, and here, and here—ravaging
all of the communities of the Ffolk along that shore.
This will certainly send a crowd of refugees fleeing
west, along the road.” Now Thelgaar drew a line
across the waist of the island, from the eastern coast
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your eyes! I say, I have never seen anything so funny
in all my seven hundred and eighty four-years!”With
a soft pop, the creature suddenly exploded into view,
still convulsed with laughter.
“Can you do it again? Oh, I’d love to see it again!”
In shock, Tristan stared into the eyes, less than an
arm’s length from his face, of a tiny dragon. The creature’s
toothy mouth was spread into a wide grin.
* * * * *
Grunnarch looked with foul temper at the Iron
Keep. Whatever business one of his captains had
meeting Thelgaar Ironhand, it was now getting in
the way of the loading.
“Send Laric to me when he returns,” the Red King
commanded.
The men of Thelgaar Ironhand, meantime, spent
the day desecrating the sleek lines of their longships
by attaching heavy iron rams to the prow of each
ship.
Grunnarch heard that Thelgaar himself would
inspect the attachment of each ram. Already there
were rumors of the Iron King caressing the rusted
metal, muttering some sort of mysterious chant as it
was affixed to the hull. Who could see the point of
such long and heavy beams, sure to throw off the balance
of the seaworthy longships? Perhaps, if the
Ffolk possessed a fleet capable of resisting the invasion,
the rams might render some useful purpose.
But the Ffolk would choose to fight on land, so no one
could see the point of naval armament.
Nonetheless, Thelgaar gave his orders with a fiery
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destruction of the last stronghold of the Ffolk upon
Gwynneth!”
The plan was exceedingly bold—far beyond the
scope of the usual raiding expedition. Yet it seemed
solid, in so far as Grunnarch could see, try though he
may to spot a flaw.
“Who is this spy?” he asked, for this was the weakest
part of the plan.
“He is . . . a druid.”
Gasps of astonishment arose from the group. “How
can you expect us to trust one of that sinister circle?”
Grunnarch expressed their doubts. “The druids are
the very heart of the Ffolk’s strength!”
Thelgaar Ironhand smiled—a cold, cruel grimace
that bore no hint of humor. “That is why this one
makes such an excellent spy. And, I assure you, he is
quite worthy of your trust.”
Grunnarch now had serious misgivings, but a look
from the Iron King silenced him before he could
speak. Again the Iron King went on.
“He is called Trahern, and you need not worry
about his loyalty. He is quite devoted . . . to me, personally.
He will place a series of cairns along the trail
you are to follow, revealing the secret ways into Myrloch
Vale.”
Grunnarch’s misgivings passed unspoken as the
meeting ended. Something about Thelgaar Ironhand
had projected such unassailable confidence that any
argument would have seemed futile even had it been
uttered. Yet it was with vague discomfort that he left
the bonfire to join his men.
Kazgoroth, in the body of the Iron King, watched
Grunnarch leave, and was pleased. That one, it felt
certain, would perform as expected. The eastern
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to Caer Corwell itself.
“You will send enough warriors to maintain the
pursuit. The rest of your force will circle around to
the north, passing through the mountains to get
before the refugees, trapping them here.”
Grunnarch’s mouth went suddenly dry. The path
Thelgaar had indicated passed through Myrloch
Vale—a fell place indeed for an army of northmen.
His protest was anticipated.
“There will be no danger!” Thelgaar’s voice rang
triumphantly. “In fact, as you enter the Vale, you
shall be joined by an army of Firbolgs. I have
arranged for a spy to show you the hidden pathways
of Myrloch.With his aid, you will pass safely.”
Grunnarch’s superstitious nature prickled with
alarm, but he suppressed the urge to object. Thelgaar
continued.
“All the Ffolk of eastern Gwynneth will be caught
in this trap. You will slay the men and old Ffolk. The
rest you shall take as slaves.”
All the kings gathered around the fire stood in
shocked silence. The wars with the Ffolk had been
bloody, savage affairs, yet never had they set out with
the objective of annihilating a population. Still, Thelgaar’s
commanding presence brooked no argument,
nor was any made.
With a grim half-smile, the Iron King looked
around before continuing. Grunnarch had trouble
believing that this was the same king who had counseled
peace less than a fortnight earlier.
“You will then resume the march, joining me here,
at Caer Corwell. If we have succeeded in reducing
the fortress, our task will be completed at this
point. If not, your forces will join with mine in the
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were clasped together before his chest, his eyes
sparkled with intelligence and humor, and a thin,
snakelike tail wriggled behind him. Suddenly the
little creature disappeared, but a few seconds later
he popped back into sight. He repeated the process
erratically, becoming invisible briefly and then blinking
back and forth.
Finally the prince burst out laughing. The little
creature reacted with glee, clapping his forepaws
quickly and giggling in a high-pitched voice.
“Oh, I say, this is simply splendid. You have a sense
of humor, too! Why, everyone else I play a little prank
upon seems to get all twisted about! They really,
sometimes, say the nastiest thingst Why, if you only
knew—”
“Hold,” cried the prince. “Who, or what, are you?
And why did you lure me out here?”
“Why, I’m Newt. I thought you knew. I thought
everybody knew. Oh dear, I thought I was much
more famous than all that!” The dragon looked
deeply distressed, but then just shook his head and
continued.
“And why? Well, for the fun of it, of course. Don’t
you know anything? Still, I should say, you don’t
look like you live around here. The ones that live
here are much bigger than you—and a good sight
uglier, I might add, if you won’t get a big head. I
mean, it’s not like you’re the most handsome—”
“Wait!” The prince finally interrupted the flow of
chatter. His mind whirled from keeping up with the
dragon. “Who lives around here? Where?” The
dragon’s description had naturally reminded the
prince of the dread Firbolgs.
“Well, now,” the dragon began, obviously pleased at
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cantrevs of Corwell would burn to ashes. Beneath
the might of the northmen’s invasion.
It also watched Laric, captain of the Bloodriders.
That one, Kazgoroth felt sure, would not fail. Even
if the Red King did not accomplish his objective, the
red-robed horsemen most certainly would. Across
the fire, Laric looked back at Thelgaar. The red
gleam in his eyes seemed to come from more than
simple reflected firelight.
Slowly, Kazgoroth swiveled its gaze to the vast,
placid sea. Great swells rolled softly beyond the cozy
protection of Iron Bay. Tomorrow Kazgoroth in the
body of Thelgaar Ironhand would lead a second fleet
of longships southward, directly toward Corwell. The
long rams would slow the progress of the fleet, and
increase its danger. Yet they would serve a necessary
purpose before the end.
For Kazgoroth knew with certainty that the
Leviathan awaited them.
* * * * *
A low, deep growl rumbled from Canthus’s chest
as the great dog regarded the dragon. The hound
did not attack, however, because the prince
remained too astounded to issue such a command.
Surprise mingled with annoyance, at the rude trick
the dragon had played on him, and amusement at
the dragon’s appearance.
For this dragon was only a little over two feet
long.
Fluttering daintily on gossamer wings, the bright
blue creature hovered before him. His little paws
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them, although.we would welcome your company. I
have a feeling that the Big Cave will hold the
answers to several of our questions.”
“Very well.” The little dragon heaved a massive
sigh of resignation. But he proceeded to lead Tristan
swiftly through the fen, forcing the prince to
stumble often in the darkened thickets. Nonetheless,
the dragon followed a path over dry ground,
allowing the human to avoid the many ponds and
marshes sprawling across his path.
Tristan ran, stumbled, and crawled forward for
nearly half an hour. He grew more and more amazed
at the way the dragon had drawn him away from the
camp. He had assumed that it was at most five minutes
away. Finally, he crashed through a thicket of
thorny branches into the circle of firelight. All of his
companions, awake, stared at him in astonishment.
“What in the world happened to you?” cried Robyn
in a mixture of relief and alarm. “We were just getting
ready to start searching.”
Pawldo, meanwhile, jumped backward and drew
his sword. “Dragon!” he cried, confronting Newt with
the steely tip. For his part, the little dragon blinked
out of sight, reappearing behind the prince and staring
huffily over his shoulder.
“This is Newt,” Tristan explained, and introduced
his companions in return.
“Newt sort of played a joke on me, and the next
thing I knew I was out somewhere in the middle of
the fens!”
“I knew it!” Pawldo’s voice quivered with righteous
indignation. “Sorcery!”
“Well, I’ve never been so insulted in my life!” It was
Newt’s turn for indignation. “Sorcery my scales! It’s
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having a partner in conversation. “They live in the
Big Cave—here in the fens. They look like you, as, of
course, I said already, except they’re much taller and
broader and, well, hairier, and their noses are huge, I
mean they just hang out of their faces like a limb
hangs off a tree, and, well, they smell bad, and—”
“I think I understand,” Tristan blurted, trying to
stem the flow of words. “Can you show me where this
Big Cave is?”
“Why, certainly,” Newt said proudly. “Just follow
me!”
In an instant, the little dragon disappeared.
“Wait!” cried the prince, afraid that Newt was gone
forever. In a like instant, however, the creature
returned to hover before him, regarding him with
pity.
“My, but you are slow. If you want to creep along,
well, it’ll take us all night to get there, and I’ll just
have to have a bite to eat before we go because, you
see, flying like this is very hard work, very hard work
indeed. If I don’t eat, well, I’ll just collapse in a heap,
and then I won’t be of any use to anybody, least of all
you or me, who are the people I could be of some use
to if I had something to—”
Tristan burst out laughing, to Newt’s obvious chagrin.
The little dragon sniffed, hoisted his scaly snout
into the air, and turned his back on the prince.
“I’m sorry,” the prince said. “But my friends are
camped over . . .” He turned, and realized he hadn’t
the slightest notion of where he was.
“Oh, them,” the dragon said, obviously disappointed.
“I thought that perhaps the two of us . . .”
“They are my companions on a quest to save a
man’s life!” Tristan said sternly. “I cannot abandon
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and sausage! How splendid!”
In a second, the little dragon had pulled forth a
link of sausage as long as himself and begun to
devour it. He followed it with two loaves of bread, a
massive cake of cheese, and a flask of red wine. He
was about to delve back into the saddlebag when
Tristan seized upon the excuse of the approaching
dawn.
“Could you show us the cave now? It really is most
urgent.”
The little dragon looked reluctant, but then contemplated
his swollen belly, and decided he would
not starve in the next few hours.
“It’s not far,” promised Newt, proceeding to lead
them through a horrible entanglement of branches,
thorns, and vines. In several places Tristan or
Daryth had to hack a path through the growth with
their swords. The dragon proved as good as his word,
however. As they crossed a flat and marshy cleating,
Newt looked over his shoulder and whispered conspiratorially.
“The Big Cave is right up here, through
these bushes.”
Silently they tethered the horses in the thicket,
and carefully probed forward. Tristan and Robyn
advanced side by side, with Newt fluttering along
above him. Soon they reached the shelter of a low
hummock, and looked around it into a great clearing.
Before them stood the Big Cave. It was some sort of
large stone structure—perhaps a temple, or fortress.
Above the great building soared the black falcon,
Sable.
* * * * *
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nothing more than a little visual-tactile illusion, and
perhaps some minor hypnosis, but not sorcery! Why,
I’ve a good mind to make you find the Big Cave yourselves,
or maybe I’ll just go tell those big ugly people
that you’re here, and let them come and take care of
you!”
“Wait a minute,” interjected Tristan, turning to his
friends. “Newt has told me about some creatures that
have built a ‘big cave’ around here. I bet they are Firbolgs
and that is where Keren is!”
“Who’s Keren?” asked Newt.
“Our friend—we’re here to try and rescue him. He’s
the greatest bard among the Ffolk!” said Tristan.
“Oh, the bard!” Neent at
the recognition. “I saw them bring him in—he’s probably
dead by now. I hope that doesn’t mean you’ll go
home, does it? Oh, I would hate that—and just when
we’re starting to—”
“Dead?” Robyn’s face went white. “Are you sure?”
“Well, no,” replied the dragon, miffed at the interruption.
“He might be alive, but when they dragged
him into the Big Cave, he didn’t look too good.”
“We must find out!” declared Tristan. “Will you
show us the cave?”
“Not if you keep up this talk about sorcery and
sordid stuff like that!”With remarkable conciseness,
Newt stated his point.
“We’re sorry,” Tristan said. “We won’t do it again,
will we . . . Pawldo?”
The halfling looked about to object, but instead he
grunted his agreement.
“Well, after a little bite to eat, I’ll show you.”Newt
came to rest next to a saddlebag of provisions, and
curiously looked inside. “Hmmm, cheese . . . oh my,
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8
THE BIG CAVE
ONCE AGAIN THE full moon poured its irresistible
rays over the sleeping village of Corwell. Erian,
alone in his cottage, dreaded the rise of the moon, but
as its light washed across him he had no choice but to
succumb to the summoning force.
As the first twinges of change wracked his body, he
smashed open the door of his cottage and ran
through the quiet, moonlit streets. The shadowy bulk
of Caer Corwell loomed to his right as he splashed
through Corlyth Creek at the ford just north of town.
His feet pounded the turf in panic as he sprinted,
trying to get as far away as possible. Abruptly, a convulsion
wracked his body and he tumbled to the
ground, rolling in agony across the grass.
Landing on his back, he lay helpless because his
limbs did not respond to his command. Instead they
twitched and thrashed with a will of their own. He
tried to avert his face, to bury it in the darkness of
the earth, but the glowing orb of the moon called to
him with such force that he could only gaze skyward.
His eyes wide, he felt the stabbing force of the moon
burning into his skull.
His body contorted through the changes wrought
171
The leviathan sensed the presence of the fleet as
soon as it broached the waters beyond Iron Bay.
Dimly, the creature understood the threat these ships
posed to the goddess. It resolutely turned toward the
longships, still many miles away.
Slowly, the great tail propelled the creature through
the sea, occasionally sending the great body to the
surface to breathe. Then its head would dive again,
the sinuous body rolling across the surface behind it
for an impossibly long time.
Finally the great tail would lift above the waves.
The leviathan raised it high, perhaps in a gesture of
challenge, and then slapped it against the surface to
propel itself deeper and deeper.
For many days it rolled thus, breaking water to
breathe, and then plunging far beneath the surface
to swim. As it moved, it sensed the threat far before
it. A perversion had entered the water, befouling a
Balance of the clean sea, and laying a clear challenge
before the leviathan.
The befoulment grew stronger as the leviathan
moved northward. It spread across the sea like a
cancerous poison, clogging the creature’s breathing
hole, and stinging its eyes. Resolutely, however, the
leviathan advanced.
Soon would come the time for killing.
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approaches to the structure, their crystalline eyes
seeming to glitter with malevolence.
Tristan, Robyn, and Newt lay behind a fallen tree
trunk. They stared in awe at the massive structure.
Directly before them, a pair of huge wooden doors
at least ten feet high stood between several wide
columns. A deep pathway led from the doors into the
depths of the fens, passing very near to their hiding
place.
“But what is it? Why is it here?” Tristan could find
no clue in the building’s appearance. All he knew was
that he felt a very definite threat from the structure.
“Its purpose is to menace the goddess,” stated
Robyn.
The stout walls seemed fortresslike in their
strength, yet they contained no apertures through
which defenders could fight.
Noiselessly, Daryth slid forward until he was
alongside Tristan and Robyn. The Calishite pursed
his lips in a silent whistle as he looked at the
building.
“Pawldo and I will slip around behind it,” he
whispered.
“Be careful!” the prince urged. He saw that the
halfling was nearby, and then all of a sudden Pawldo
and Daryth were gone—vanished into the underbrush
with scarcely a sound.
“Um,” said Newt after a few minutes. The little
dragon had been visibly restraining himself and
could manage no longer. “Maybe I’ll go keep an eye on
the foo—I mean, the horses.” He quickly blinked out
of sight.
All day—Pawldo and Daryth from the rear and the
prince and the maiden from the entrance—observed
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by the bite of Kazgoroth two months before. Hair,
fangs, claws all sprouted. His limbs twisted and
shrank. Finally a tortured howl broke from his lips,
ringing across the moor and silencing every creature
within hearing.
Erian climbed to his four feet and padded softly
forward. His tongue lolled heavily, from gaping, fangstudded
jaws. His sensitive nostrils searched the air,
soon catching wind of a fat cow. His path took him
inland, away from Corwell. He broke into a lope,
drooling in anticipation of the kill.
This time he would eat very well.
* * * * *
“I told you!” boasted Newt.
“What is that?” whispered Tristan.
“It’s an affront to the land!” The prince turned,
startled at the vehemence in Robyn’s voice. Her jaw
was clenched tightly shut, and he saw tears welling
in her eyes.
“What do you mean?”
“Can’t you see?” She talked as if he were being very
stupid.
Tristan looked. He saw huge stone walls, running
for a hundred paces to the right and left of
where they lay. Much of the surface of the walls
was streaked with green moss or climbing tendrils
of weeds—but in other places the stone was bare
and gray. For the most part the walls were smooth
and featureless, but the top of the structure was
lined with a row of hideously grinning gargoyles.
The stone creatures looked down upon the
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Tristan did not feel very heroic at the thought.
What would a true hero—what would Cymrych
Hugh have done at a time like this?
“We might wait for nightfall. Maybe they’ll all go to
sleep.” But there wasn’t much hope in Robyn’s voice
even as she made the suggestion.
“Well, all this seems very silly to me!” announced
Newt. “Why don’t you just go in through the tunnel?”
“What tunnel?”
“Naturally, the tunnel that leads into the Big Cave.
Why, what other tunnel could I possibly be speaking
of? My, but you all are a little short on brains sometimes!”
“Why didn’t you tell us about this tunnel?”
demanded the prince through his teeth.
“Because no one asked me, of course!” sniffed
Newt. “Why, I should think that would be obvious
even to such, well, dimwits as yourselves—no
offense, of course, but you people could really stand
to do a little more thinking!”
Tristan began a sharp reply, but quickly bit his
tongue. Perhaps there was some truth to the dragon’s
words. After all, they had seen that he knew his way
around the fens, and yet it had not occurred to him,
or any of them, to ask him what else he knew.
“Maybe, if you show us where this tunnel is, even
we dimwits can find a way to help our friend,” the
prince said. “That is, if you’re quite finished eating.”
“Well,” said Newt, looking wistfully at the last saddlebag
of provisions. “It’ll keep. Now follow me, and
try not to do anything really stupid.”
Tristan signaled Canthus to “guard,” knowing that
the other hounds would remain with him. The dogs
should provide some discouragement to anyone or
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the strange structure. Once, the great doors opened
and several Firbolgs emerged, tromping heavily
down the path. Later, toward the end of the day, a
score of the misshapen monsters marched back up
the path. The leader pounded the doors with his club,
and they quickly opened to admit the column.
Each time the door opened, Tristan strained to see
inside the black hole. No guards were visible, but it
would have been foolhardy to risk an approach. Their
little bard would not stand a chance against an army
of Firbolgs.
Finally, Tristan and Robyn wriggled back along the
ground to the small clearing where they had tethered
the horses. There they found Pawldo and
Daryth, as well as Newt. The little dragon was busy
putting a large dent in a massive slab of cheese.
“What did you find?” Tristan asked.
“There’s another set of doors at the rear—even
bigger than those at the front,” Daryth replied. “Must
be some kind of back door or escape route. I heard all
kinds of noise behind ’em.”
“You went up to the doors?” Tristan was appalled.
“The fellow sneaks pretty well, let me tell you,”
Pawldo said, amused. “I was right behind him, and I
didn’t know he was there!”
“And what did you hear?” asked Robyn.
“I’m not sure. It sounded like some kind of digging,
or maybe chopping. They might have been building
something or excavating, but there were a bunch of
those monsters in the next room! Nobody came in or
went out, though, not while we were watching.”
“There seems to be no way around it.” The prince
spoke low. “We’ll have to go in through the front
door.”
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dogs and horses. Of course, that one will have to keep
an eye on all our food, and supplies. Would you consider
performing this important service for us? I
don’t think any of these other ‘dimwits’ could handle
that.”
For a moment, he though that the little blue creature
would argue, but Newt quickly reconsidered the
prospect.
“Well, okay, but you’ll have to tell me all about
what it’s like in there. I’ve always wanted to go in,
but never really had the time in my busy day
before.”
“We promise!” answered the prince. “Wait with
the horses, and we will see you very soon!”
“Good-bye!” called the dragon, already heading
toward the saddlebags.
The prince turned to his friends. “Be careful,” he
cautioned. “And be prepared for anything!”
Robyn and Daryth took burning torches and followed
Tristan into the tunnel. The passage widened
enough immediately that Tristan and Robyn could
walk side by side in the lead, while Daryth followed
them and Pawldo brought up the rear. The little
halfling walked carefully backward, keeping an
arrow nocked and ready.
As Tristan walked deeper into the tunnel, he felt
his feet sink into clutching mud. The stuff came up to
his ankles, making each step hard work. In several
places a pool of chilly water spread across the tunnel,
splashing as high as his calves. Pawldo was forced to
hold his bow horizontally at shoulder height.
Soon the thin rays of light filtering in the tunnel
entrance disappeared behind them, and they
advanced by the dim light of the flickering torches.
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anything who stumbled on the horses. They each
selected weapons. Pawldo carried his bow and shortsword,
while Daryth fingered his dagger and
wrapped a long coil of rope about his shoulders. Tristan
took his longbow and knife, while Robyn still carried
the stout oaken cudgel she had made in Llyrath
Forest.
Shortly, Newt led them to the tunnel, and the
prince immediately felt more optimistic, The opening
proved to be a scum-lined drainage pipe, emptying
water from the building into a fetid marsh several
hundred yards away. Measuring nearly six feet in
diameter, it emerged from the building into the wall
of a shallow gulley.
“Let’s make some torches,” suggested the prince
upon seeing that the passageway swiftly disappeared
into darkness.
They found many dried reeds near the entrance,
and swiftly bound the stalks into effective torches.
Each burned with a nearly smokeless, yet very
bright, flame. The torches seemed to burn rapidly,
however, so they carried several extras.
“I wonder if they’ll have anything for us to eat,”
asked Newt, eagerly buzzing around as they prepared.
Tristan paused, carefully considering his objections.
For a moment he thought about bringing the
dragon along. Perhaps that would be safer than leaving
him with the supplies. But he discarded the idea
as impetuously rash. There was no telling what the
unpredictable Newt would do in the midst of a battle,
or when they were trying to move very quietly.
“Newt,” the prince said, seriously. “We need someone
brave and very, very smart to stay and watch the
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by most of a scaly body. She lurched backward as
Pawldo released his arrow and Tristan stabbed with
his knife. The prince felt the blade bite home, but the
creature immediately vanished under the water
again.
Pawldo quickly readied another arrow as Daryth
pulled Robyn back. The Calishite brandished his
torch, moving toward the hole.
For a moment the chamber resounded with no
sound other than their heavy breathing, which
rasped with fear and excitement. Tristan felt the
thrill of challenge tingle through his body, and had
difficulty holding his blade steady.
Again, water exploded before them and a large
body rushed toward Daryth. Scales gleamed in the
torchlight, but Tristan could not tell whether the
monster was reptile or fish. Limbs that could have
been fins or feet thrashed through the water, and
those vicious teeth drove toward the Calishite’s face.
Pawldo loosed his arrow instantly and saw it lodge
in the monster’s neck. Tristan hacked mightily with
his sword, opening a deep gash in its head. And
Daryth brought the torch around in an instinctive
effort to ward off the attack.
Light flared in the dingy chamber as the torch
rushed through the air and plunged into the monster’s
mouth. The smell of seared flesh spread
through the air, and the creature whirled around
frantically in the water. A final thrust of its huge tail
knocked the prince headlong, and then the monster
was gone.
For long moments they waited, slowly catching
their breath.
“Is everyone all right?” asked Tristan, recovering
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Fortunately, the tunnel was straight, and the footing
even.
Looking around, the prince saw that the tunnel
was supported by a network of overhanging roots,
many as broad as oak limbs. Occasionally a creeping
tendril draped from the ceiling or wall, but for the
most part the framework seemed quite secure.
Soon they entered a larger chamber, where the
tunnel walls fell away to the bare limits of their
vision on either side. The room seemed to be a good
ten paces wide. The far end was lost in darkness, and
water covered the entire floor.
Rank smells seemed to rise from the stagnant pool.
It smells like death, thought the prince, or maybe not
quite death, but close. No sound stirred in the tunnel
except for the quiet sloshing of their feet moving
through the water.
“Oh!” Robyn uttered a sharp cry and fell.
The prince turned to see her slip downward as if
she had stepped into a deep hole. Water splashed as
he grabbed her arm. Sputtering and splashing, she
managed to regain her footing on the lip of the
underwater hole. Somehow she had kept her torch
out of the water during the mishap.
“Look out!” hissed Daryth, and the prince saw the
flash of a scaly body in the center of the pool. Whatever
it was, it swiftly disappeared underwater.
For seconds the room was absolutely silent. The
only movement was the steady growth of the rings of
ripples on the water’s surface. They spread outward,
sloshing against Tristan’s legs. Still there was no
sign of their maker.
Suddenly a gaping mouth, bristling with white
teeth, burst from the water at Robyn’s feet, followed
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walked upon dry ground again, and their progress
quickened.
Soon they reached an apparent end to the tunnel,
as bare dirt walls capped the passage before them
and to either side.
“This looks like a dead end,” said Tristan, inspecting
the walls with his fingertips. “We might have
known that Newt’s solution would have a drawback.”
“Hold on a minute,” cautioned Daryth. “Give me a
boost.” Looking up, Tristan saw that they stood below
some kind of drainage pipe. About four feet in diameter,
the pipe appeared to go straight up, outdistancing
the range of the torchlight.
The prince lifted his friend to his shoulders so that
the upper half of Daryth’s body extended into the
pipe. He grunted in pain as the Calishite climbed to
his feet, resting muddy boots against each of the
prince’s ears.
“This doesn’t look too bad,” grunted Daryth, his
voice echoing from the pipe. In moments he found a
handhold, and his feet disappeared into the pipe
after him.
“Stand back” he warned, as mud and unidentifiable
muck fell from the pipe to splash upon Tristan, who
had been looking upward in amazement. The prince
ignored the mess on his face, continuing to marvel as
Daryth forced his way up the pipe using little more
than the sheer sides of the passage as hand and
footholds. His progress was slow, but he soon moved
into the darkness above.
“Hsst!” The voice filtered down from the pipe.
“Come up after me!”
Immediately, an uncoiling rope emerged from the
pipe. One end of the rope dropped to the ground at
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his feet.
“I think so,” replied Daryth.
“What was that?” asked Robyn, trying unsuccessfully
to suppress a shudder.
“I don’t know,” admitted the prince. Like Robyn, he
felt a nameless, crawling horror in this place. He
wanted very badly to run into the light of the sun,
but instead he gestured forward.
As Daryth climbed carefully to his feet, he spoke,
his eyes wide.
“I’ve heard of things that live deep in the earth,
half fish, and half serpent. They are used by the
mountain sultans of Calimshan to guard their most
priceless treasures and the secret passages of their
palaces. They are large and fast . . . and mightily evil.
Their fangs drip with venom.” The Calishite paused,
remembering something unpleasant.
“I almost met . . .”His voice trailed off and he looked
up, as if suddenly remembering his surroundings. He
shook his head and remained silent.
Not certain whether he wanted Daryth to say more
or not, Tristan led the group as they carefully picked
their way around the hole that had caught Robyn
unaware. She carefully probed the ground before
them with her cudgel, and they soon waded through
the large chamber into the shallower water of the
tunnel.
As they continued through the long tunnel, the
prince noticed that the floor had begun to slope a bit.
The water flowed around their feet toward the large
chamber behind them. Then, for several minutes the
water level decreased steadily, until soon it had
dropped to a small stream running down a gutter in
the center of the tunnel. With some relief, they
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Waiting in the dark below, they heard a quiet scurrying
on the grate, then nimble fingers located a pair
of small catches, and they heard the slight sound of
metal moving on stone.
“Push up!” Pawldo ordered, and the three humans
strained upward against the grid. Slowly, the heavy
metal lifted from the hole as they stepped to the floor
above. As they laid the grate back onto the floor, it
clanged noisily and unexpectedly against a stone
floor. Tristan gasped, and then they were all silent,
frozen, listening for a response. No sound broke the
silence of the dank passage. Finally, they began to
breathe again, and silently they eased the grate back
into its place.
Tristan’s eyes, grown accustomed to near total
darkness, now served him well in the dimly lit passage.
He saw that they stood in the middle of a wide
corridor. The grate in the floor seemed to be some
sort of drain, for gutters in each side of the corridor
carried a steady flow of water to the tunnel.
They saw walls, ceiling, and floor all constructed of
smooth stone. The craftsmanship, though crude,
seemed very solid. The corridor reached perhaps fifteen
feet from side to side, and twelve feet to the ceiling.
The only illumination was a light at one end of
the corridor and seemed to be coming from far away,
as if the light traveled around several corners before
reaching the companions.
“Let’s have a look,” suggested Tristan, nodding in
the direction of the light.
The others agreed, and they assumed their original
formation, now without torchlight. They walked for
several minutes, Tristan and Robyn cautiously leading.
They passed a darkened corridor leading to the
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Tristan’s feet.
Pulling the line to test its security, Tristan then
climbed hand over hand up into the pipe. For several
minutes he strained steadily upward, feeling numbness
creep into his shoulders and arms. The passage
here darkened to inky blackness.
He almost started to panic, but then he heard a
voice from above him say, “It’s all right. Come on up.
You’re almost there.” And soon he felt a presence
near him, and Daryth’s welcome hands reached out
to pull him sideways. With relief he collapsed onto a
narrow ledge next to his friend.
Soundlessly Tristan willed his arms to stop trembling.
Gradually they obeyed, and he became aware
of a very dim light filtering down from above.
Robyn reached them on the ledge by the time his
eyes made out the faint outlines of a metal grate low
over their heads.
Finally Pawldo ascended, grunting and cursing
under his breath the whole way. He reluctantly
refrained from any loud objections as he joined the
companions on the ledge. As a precautionary measure,
they had extinguished all of the torches down
below. Thus, they now crouched in near total darkness.
Only that faint, eerie glow illuminated the
heavy iron grate above them.
“Can you slip through that grate?” Daryth asked,
in a faint whisper. Pawldo quickly nodded in understanding,
and squirmed easily through the metal
bars over their heads. The humans down below
could barely make out the shape of their small
comrade.
“Now, look for some way to open it,” ordered
Daryth, again in an almost inaudible whisper.
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that the light was brighter now, as if it were just
around one more corner.
“Stay here,” cautioned Daryth.
They did as he suggested while he advanced
silently, finally lying down on the floor and peering
around the corner at ground level. In seconds, he
returned to them.
“There’s a big iron door in the wall,” he explained.
“It’s got a big lock on it, but I might be able to open it.
Oh, and there’s a giant asleep in a chair outside the
door.”
“Some afterthought,” grumbled Pawldo.
“This could be a cell,” whispered Robyn excitedly.
“I’ll bet that’s where Keren is!”
They each moved forward and looked around the
corner. Twenty feet away, a Firbolg slouched in a
huge chair, snoring contentedly. A large jug lay on its
side at his feet and a smoky torch flickered in a wall
socket above the chair.
Next to the Firbolg stood the door Daryth had
described, and that portal seemed formidable indeed.
A surface of dull black iron dotted with heavy bolts,
the entire thing hung from three massive iron
hinges. In the center of the door was a small keyhole.
Daryth stealthily crawled past the sleeping Firbolg
while his companions breathlessly marked his
progress. The Calishite reached down and seemed to
fumble with his belt. In moments, he withdrew a
curiously shaped metal object and inserted it into the
keyhole. Carefully, he began to wiggle it around,
holding his ear next to the keyhole.
The sharp click of the latch suddenly echoed
through the corridor, and the sleeping guard grunted
and smacked his lips. Daryth’s hand darted to his
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185
right, and another, but wordlessly agreed to continue
forward.
A snort erupted from the second side passage just
after they passed it, and they whirled toward the
sound. Daryth and Pawldo seemed to disappear as
they crouched in the darkened shadows of the gutter.
The scrape of heavy footsteps announced the
appearance of a stooping Firbolg. It lurched into
the corridor and then stood, swaying from side to
side. Suddenly, he gave forth a tremendous belch,
and blinked at Tristan and Robyn, standing side
by side before him.
The prince, smelling strong spirits on the stumbling
Firbolg, realized that the creature was drunk,
But the reason didn’t matter when the filthy creature
grunted an unintelligible oath and leaped at
Robyn with an upraised fist.
Tristan quickly drew his knife and slashed upward
at the Firbolg’s fist. At the same time a figure darted
from the shadows and hurtled itself at the Firbolg’s
side. A gleaming dagger was thrust, and suddenly
the creature’s throat exploded in blood. Soundlessly,
it dropped to the ground.
The prince stared at Daryth in awe, realizing that
his friend had slain the Firbolg with one blow—cutting
the creature’s neck by surprise.
“Quick! Let’s get him out of sight!” Pawldo urged.
“Pull him into the gutter.”
They dragged the heavy corpse to the side and concealed
it as best they could in the shadowy depression.
When they moved on through the darkness
toward the unseen light source, Tristan saw that
Robyn walked a little closer to him than before.
They neared the corner, where they paused, noting
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into mud, and the plants within fifty feet of the pond
were broken and dead. Here, the coal-carriers emptied
their loads into the water, and then turned along
the trail to the mines.
Groth stood alone, after they left, admiring their
handiwork. The chunks of coal bubbled and hissed as
they sank into the water, dissolving quickly into a
murky cloud of pollution. Groth could tell that the
enchanted and pure water of the Darkwell was gradually
being destroyed by the steadily increasing
grime. Every day, as the coal fed the waters, the violence
of the reaction increased.
Groth’s dim mind pondered the potentials.
Although he had assumed rulership of the Firbolgs
by his shrewd mental ability, such ability among the
Firbolgs was no great testimony.
Still, Groth knew that Kazgoroth would be pleased.
Groth recalled his fear when the Beast had risen
from the Darkwell on the night of the spring equinox.
Kazgoroth had ordered the trembling Firbolg to
feed the well with coal, as the Firbolgs had done in
centuries past in answer to their master’s command.
Before winter, Kazgoroth would return to the Darkwell—
and Groth would see that it was ready.
Groth had used his acute—for a Firbolg—mind to
separate the work into two tasks: first, they collected
a massive stockpile from the mines around the vale.
Now they were on the second stage: adding the black,
dusty coal to the festering waters of the Darkwell,
pouring in tons of the stuff every day.
Groth noticed that the sun had dropped below the
level of the treetops. He turned and lumbered toward
the temple, eager to shut the heavy door behind him
before nightfall.
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dagger, but the Firbolg soon sank into the depths of
slumber again.
Slowly, the Calishite pulled on the door. The hinges
squeaked in protest as it started to swing outward.
Again the Firbolg did not awaken, and soon the door
stood wide enough for them all to see within. The
light of the wall torch spilled through the door and
into the room, which was obviously no prison cell.
The small light of the torch was reflected again and
again, lighting up the entire chamber in gleaming
dots of many colors. Gold coins lay strewn over the
floor. Jeweled bracelets reflected a rainbow of colors.
Crystal chalices and steel swords lay scattered casually
about the room, as if left here and forgotten.
The fortune was greater, Tristan felt certain, than
even that stored in the coffers of the High King’s
treasury. And here it was, locked away in a Firbolg
dungeon.
* * * * *
Groth stood upon the low hummock and watched
the Firbolgs—his Firbolgs—at work. A column of
twenty marched stoically past him. Each carried a
basket upon his head containing some four hundred
pounds of coal. Grimly purposeful, the Firbolgs
trudged down the trail into the thickness of the fens.
Smiling—if a gap-toothed, drooling grimace could
be called a smile—Groth stepped from the hummock
and followed the column down the trail. He decided
to oversee the other part of this operation as well.
Soon the procession reached the shore of a murky
pool. The dirt along the water had been trampled
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backpack. The leather sack quickly grew heavy with
valuables.
Daryth and Robyn walked slowly around inside the
room, awestruck, touching nothing. Finally, Tristan
could contain himself no longer, and he followed the
others into the treasure room.
Daryth knelt down and pulled a curved scabbard
from the shadows. Its plain leather surface belied the
worth of its contents, as he whisked forth a gleaming
scimitar. Seeing that Robyn still carried only her
oaken cudgel, he bowed with a flourish and offered
the weapon to her. She looked down, considering the
offer, but then she smiled shyly and shook her head.
The Calishite, instead, buckled the weapon to his
own waist. it was clear from the way he easily
demonstrated the skill of pulling the blade from the
scabbard that he was no neophyte with the weapon.
He held the scimitar at the ready, moving silently to
the door to watch the Firbolg.
Robyn suddenly knelt and picked up a large silver
ring. Tristan recognized it as a torque, a druidic
ornament to be worn around the neck. The maiden
shook back her hair, separated the band at its clasp,
and then placed it around her smooth throat. The
silver shone coolly against her tanned skin.
Tristan, disturbed at the sight of Robyn, looked
through the treasure at his feet. Suddenly his eye
was caught by something. “Look!” he whispered
harshly, almost crying out. “Here’s Keren’s bow!”
Indeed, the bard’s longbow was unmistakable. The
polished black wood, stretching through an arc as
tall as a man, looked like no other weapon. The
prince remembered the bard’s description of the
weapon, which had been carved from a hefty bough
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Overall, Groth felt pleased—in fact, very pleased.
His Firbolgs worked diligently to pollute the well.
Perhaps it was time they had a reward.
A line of thick spittle ran from Groth’s widespread
lips as he considered the possibility of entertainment.
Of course, he could not afford to slay the
unicorn yet—he did not understand why the Beast
had told him to capture it, but he would not risk
Kazgoroth’s wrath by slaying his prisoner. Still,
there was that other one who would provide grand
titillation as he suffered a gory death in the Pit. Yes,
indeed—Groth licked his lips in anticipation.
It was time for the bard to die.
* * * * *
Flickering torchlight glittered on gold coins,
silver bracelets studded with jewels, and shining
wealth in a thousand forms. Robyn caught her
breath in astonishment, and Tristan failed to suppress
a low whistle. Pawldo, meanwhile, sprinted
soundlessly forward and darted into the treasure
room before anyone could react.
Tristan muffled a curse and held his sword ready
in case the sleeping Firbolg awoke. He showed no
sign of leaving his grunting dreams, however. Before
the prince could react, Robyn too slipped past him
and into the room. Sighing in resignation, the prince
watched the guard for any alarming movement.
Through the door, he could see Pawldo kneel down
amid a great pile of coins and jewels. His nimble figures
picked up and discarded object after object,
until he found something of worth to slip into his
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Kamerynn paced restlessly around the dirty pen,
snorting and pawing the floor. Stone walls rose to a
height of more than thirty feet on each side—even the
unicorn’s powerful legs could not jump such a barrier.
The wooden gate set in the wall was constructed of
layer upon layer of wood and was too solid to smash.
All around, the scents and sounds of the Firbolgs
assailed Kamerynn, driving him frantic with disgust
and rage. In a frenzy of frustration, the unicorn
kicked the door. As before, he bounced off. After pacing
restlessly for a minute, he smashed the stubborn
portal again. This time, his ivory horn sent splinters
of wood flying, but did not weaken the door.
Again and again the mighty unicorn smashed
shoulders, horn, and hooves into the wood. Finally the
wooden barrier shuddered, bouncing slightly as
strained timbers began to break.
Now Kamerynn turned and kicked the door with
his powerful rear legs. It strained, and finally burst
outward in a shower of splinters. Turning, the unicorn
leaped through the opening.
Four Firbolgs, clubs upraised, stood waiting, glee in
their bestial eyes. Kamerynn charged forward, bowling
over two of the Firbolgs with his broad shoulders.
The others leaped and grabbed, but could not stop
him.
Kicking off the last grasping hands, Kamerynn galloped
down a wide stone corridor, illuminated by
flickering torches. Somewhere ahead, he knew, he
would find the door.
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of the Callidyrr yew. It was one of a dozen or so such
weapons, crafted by the High King’s own bowyer.
He carefully picked the weapon up, noticing that
the bard’s quiver, containing some dozen arrows,
still hung from the stout shaft. As he lifted the bow,
he caught a glimpse of something brown and dull,
lying in stark contrast among the glimmering
metal.
Kneeling, the prince saw that it was a leather
pommel, almost buried under a mountain of coins.
He brushed the gold and silver coins aside as if they
had no more importance than dirt. And, although he
couldn’t have said why, that was so, because everything
in him was drawn to another piece of dull
unadorned leather. He lifted a plain, dirty, worn
scabbard from among the jewels. From it projected
an ancient, battered sword hilt.
In a swift gesture, the prince seized the hilt and
pulled, drawing forth a silver longsword. He whispered
a gasp of awe as it saw that it glowed with a
light all its own, a light that had a purity that outshone
all the other treasure in the chamber.
Slowly he lifted the sword, feeling the contours of
the hilt fit naturally into his palm. The blade was
emblazoned in a crest and motto, written in the Old
Script. Squinting, he could make nothing of the
words. Their very presence, however, told him that
indeed the weapon was ancient. Suddenly, the
sleeping Firbolg snorted outside the door of the
room.
* * * * *
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9
THE LEGACY OF
CYMRYCH HUGH
THE COMPANIONS FROZE in the treasure room. The
Firbolg grunted and stirred in his chair. Finally,
he settled back to a deep pattern of snoring. The incident
made them realize how precarious their position
was, however, and they gathered by the door.
“Come on.” Robyn signaled to them. Holding her
handmade cudgel ready for action, she led the party
from the room.
Tristan strapped the silver sword to his belt while
he waited for the others to leave the room. He noticed
that Pawldo’s pockets and pouches bulged with
treasure, yet somehow the halfling didn’t make any
clinking noises as he moved. Daryth carried the
scimitar. In addition, the prince saw that the Calishite
had bedecked his fingers with an assortment
of gem-encrusted rings. Robyn had taken only the
torque—even in the dim light, Tristan could see that
the silver band enhanced her beauty.
On impulse, the prince reached down and
scooped up a handful of gold coins, realizing that
he held in his hand more wealth than most humans
192
ever came across in a lifetime. Carefully, he left the
room and pushed the door shut. It latched with a
barely audible click, but the sleeping Firbolg
snorted in irritation and lurched in his chair. For a
moment they feared that he would awaken, but he
soon lapsed into deep slumber again.
They looked about, realizing that they could return
from the direction they had come, or advance farther
into the Firbolgs’ den,. Torches flickered up the corridor,
holding the promise of more—and probably dangerous—
activity if they continued ahead. Still
hoping to find Keren, they chose to continue on into
the stone structure.
Behind them, the Firbolg snorted a few times and
went on sleeping.
* * * * *
Groth returned to a scene of mass confusion, rage,
and panic. Giants ran to and fro, brandishing
weapons and crying an alarm.
“Hold!” cried the Firbolg chief, in a voice that
reached into the very depths of the earth. Instantly,
his minions paused and turned to face him. None
spoke.
“What is the meaning of this?” Groth demanded,
fixing one Firbolg with a glaring eye.
“The unicorn, yer greatness—it seems to have,
well, escaped!”
“Seems to have what?” asked the chief, very softly.
The Firbolg paled, for the chief spoke softly only
when he was very angry indeed. “It seems to have
escaped!” he finally blurted. “But it is still in the
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Robyn ran down another of the long stone corridors,
her companions following quickly. They passed
several branching corridors but continued straight
ahead, hoping to find some clue to the whereabouts
of Keren’s prison.
“Shh!” called Daryth, and the whole party lurched
to a stop. “I hear something up ahead. Sounds like
quite a commotion.” The others, straining their ears,
also heard the sounds of shouting and bellowing.
“Something has the Firbolgs riled up,” offered
Pawldo. “Maybe they found that one we left in the
gutter.”
“I don’t think so,” countered Tristan. “We left that
one behind us, and all of the noise is coming from up
ahead.”
They approached a four-way intersection of corridors,
and Tristan advanced to peer down the right
and left paths. They were both empty.
Suddenly a loud clattering emerged from the corridor
before them, and they saw a huge white creature
galloping toward them. Freezing momentarily, they
stared at the magnificent beast in surprise. Apparently
sharing their shock, the fabulous creature
stopped suddenly before them and tossed his head in
frustration. A milky white mane billowed from his
neck, but their attention collectively focused on the
animal’s forehead.
“A unicorn!” gasped Tristan, saying what the
others were thinking.
The beautiful animal reared high and then
stomped his forehooves upon the stone floor. For several
seconds he stared at them, as if thinking. Then,
he tossed his head to the left before turning and galloping
down the corridor to the right.
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temple.We were just about to catch it when—”
“Fools! Blundering idiots! Can I not leave the
temple unattended for a brief afternoon without you
bringing disaster down upon our heads?” Groth’s
voice now rattled the foundations of the temple with
its strength.
The other Firbolgs met his outburst with silence.
“Find the unicorn!” he bellowed finally, triggering his
minions to frantic action. “And return it to me,
unharmed!”
Giants raced in all directions, as anxious to escape
the presence of their wrathful lord as they were to
locate the wayward unicorn. Soon Groth stood alone
in the entry hall, contemplating the situation.
Groth was not particularly worried about the unicorn
running loose through the temple. The structure
only had two exits, and both were heavily guarded, so
the creature did not seem likely to escape. Nevertheless,
Groth gathered a few more of his warriors to
him, and took them around the outside of the building
to the exit from the coal bin. He would wait here,
with a reinforced guard, in case the unicorn proved
tricky.
Any enemy loose in the temple of the Firbolgs was
a potential threat, reflected Groth with a grimace.
He thought of the treasure room and its valuable
stores.
There would be no telling what kind of trouble
could result if the Sword of Cymrych Hugh should
fall into the wrong hands.
* * * * *
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nism, as Tristan and Robyn pressed to the door.
Pawldo sensibly maintained a watch up the corridor.
“Are you all right, Keren? What happened?” Robyn
and Tristan began to ply the door with questions, but
Daryth silenced them with a curt gesture.
Keren seemed to understand, for no further sound
emerged from the room, Minutes passed like hours,
and still the deft fingers of the Calishite could not
spring the stubborn lock. Sweat beaded on Daryth’s
forehead, and his brow furrowed in concentration. In
the distance they could still hear the bellowing of
angry Firbolgs.
Daryth cursed in frustration, wiped his palms on
his shirt, and returned the tool to the lock.
Tristan developed a cramp in his fingers, and only
then did he realize that he held his hands clenched
tightly into fists.With an effort, he forced himself to
relax, breathing in a long, deep rhythm as Arlen had
taught him.
Then the lock clicked, a loud sound among the
tense companions. The door creaked eerily as Daryth
pushed it open.
A figure staggered toward them from the darkness.
Its face was gaunt and haggard—its clothing torn
and tattered into rags. Around the eyes spread dark,
bloody circles. Yet those eyes held the light of humor
and wisdom they had come to know and appreciate
in the bard.
“Keren!” Robyn sprang forward to embrace the
bard in a hug. He held her for a moment, smiling at
the others over her shoulder.
“You don’t know how good it is to see you!” he
exclaimed, his voice shaking.
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Tristan started after the unicorn, but paused as he
felt Robyn’s restraining hand on his arm. At the
same time, he noticed the sounds of pursuing Firbolgs
far down the corridor. Obviously they were
chasing the unicorn.
“He wants us to go this way,” declared Robyn
firmly, tugging the prince into the left-hand corridor.
Too surprised by her assertion to argue, Tristan
mutely followed Robyn.
Daryth and Pawldo did likewise, and they all ran
down the passage as fast as they could. Finally they
ducked around a corner and paused, gasping for
breath and listening for sounds of pursuit.
The bellows and cries of the pursuing Firbolgs
built to a crescendo and then faded again, so they
knew that the creatures were chasing the unicorn
down the opposite corridor. More slowly, but understandably
vigilant, they continued to advance.
Suddenly Robyn stopped by a door and held up her
hand. Immediately, the others halted behind her. She
concentrated—not as if she were listening for something,
thought Tristan. It was more as if she sought a
faint scent in the air.
“Keren!” she called, in a loud, clear voice.
Tristan gasped at the sound, looking nervously
behind as if he expected hundreds of Firbolgs to leap
upon them from ambush. Before he could urge Robyn
to silence, however, an answering voice was heard
from beyond the door.
“Robyn!” The voice, though muffled, could belong to
none other than the bard.
Quickly Daryth knelt beside the door and examined
the lock. He removed an odd tool from his
pouch and began to pick carefully at the mecha-
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“I suppose I owe you my thanks,” admitted the
dwarf. She hastily continued. “But don’t go gettin’
any ideas about takin’ advantage of my gratitude! It
won’t work!”
Tristan, taken aback by the dwarf ’s rudeness,
ignored it and said, “Here’s your bow, Keren. We
found it in the treasure room.”
“Why, thank you!” A surprised Keren quickly
inspected the weapon, stringing it in one powerful
motion. “Have you an extra weapon for Finellen?—I
saw her fight these brutes, and we would do well to
have her aid.”
“I don’t have much use for this anymore,” said
Daryth, extending his dagger, hilt first, to the dwarf.
“This scimitar will do me just fine.”
Finellen snatched the dagger quickly, studying the
workmanship and running a callused thumb along
the blade. “Thanks,” she grunted. “I’ll give it back
when I’m through killing Firbolgs.”
“Let’s get out of here,” urged Pawldo. “I’ve a feeling
some giant is looking to turn me into a pancake!”
They rapidly retraced their steps, this time with
Pawldo and Finellen in the lead. Certainly there
were Firbolgs ahead of them. One deep voice in particular
commanded their attention, and it sounded as
if the Firbolgs had been ordered to begin a systematic
search of the area.
Pawldo signaled a halt from his position in the
lead, They stopped and heard distinct sounds of
heavy footsteps. A party of Firbolgs was coming their
way!
“What are we stopping for?” barked Finellen.
Pawldo, looking irritated, began to answer. Simultaneously,
a trio of hulking Firbolgs turned into the
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They said nothing for several moments, until
Pawldo’s voice brought them sharply back to reality,
“Save the tea party for later,” groused the halfling.
“Let’s get outta here!”
“I’m comin’ too!”
The sound of a strange voice brought Daryth,
Robyn, and Tristan around immediately. They stared
in wonder at a bedraggled figure emerging from the
dark corner of the cell.
“What’s the matter?” demanded the obviously
female, if not feminine, voice. “Ain’t you guys never
seen a beard before?”
The stubby figure emerged into the light and
glared belligerently at them. She (if the voice was to
be believed) stood perhaps four feet tall, with a
stocky body, short legs, and long arms. Her shoulders
were broad and sturdy, and her legs ended in surprisingly
large feet, protected by huge leather boots.
The face of the stranger disappeared completely
behind a bristling beard that dropped past the beltline.
A sloppy hat could not conceal an equally unruly
mass of hair atop the rounded head.
“Allow me to present Finellen,” said Keren, hastily
intervening. “My dear, these are the young heroes I
was telling you about . . .”
“Hmph!” muttered Finellen, as Tristan recognized
her nature.
“You’re a dwarf, aren’t you?” he said. “I consider it a
high honor to make your acquaintance, my lady.”
Finellen seemed slightly mollified, deigning to give
the prince a quick once-over.
“Finellen had the misfortune, as did I, to be taken
prisoner by the Firbolgs,” explained the bard as they
moved into the corridor.
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dagger. Her victim howled in pain and whirled to try
and club the dwarf woman.
The Firbolgs bellowed together, in a noise like
thunder, and pushed each other about in their eagerness
to attack. One separated itself from the others
and lunged for Tristan, who saw vividly the rage in
its face and smelled its hot, stinking breath.
Tristan leaped to the side, dodging a heavy club,
and struck quickly with his new sword. The blade bit
into the chest of the advancing Firbolg.
And, as he fell back, he heard flesh sizzling. Tristan
looked with horror at the wound he had just
inflicted. The Firbolg’s skin burned away from the
cut, and the creature tumbled backward, screaming.
The giant flopped onto the ground heavily, kicked a
few times, and lay still.
For a moment, the other two Firbolgs and the companions
stood frozen in shock. Then a Firbolg bellowed,
and Finellen whirled into another attack. In a
second, the melee raged anew.
Daryth and Robyn sprang forward to aid Tristan,
as the Firbolg with the huge sword took a swing at
the prince. Spinning away from the attack, Tristan
desperately raised the new sword, and the two
blades met with a ringing crash. The force of the
blow smashed the prince into the wall, where he
slumped slowly to the floor, his sword still clasped in
his stinging hands.
The sword of the Firbolg, meanwhile, had shattered
into hundreds of shards.
Still stunned, the prince barely rolled in time to
avoid a thudding blow as the last Firbolg’s club broke
flagstones from the floor. The prince still held the
strange sword—almost as if the weapon would not
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corridor ahead of them. The Firbolgs saw them
immediately.
“Hoorrgghh!” All three of the creatures uttered the
cry, and charged. Their huge boots, studded with hobnails,
cracked against the stone floor, sparking. Two
of the creatures held clubs, while the third brandished
a monstrous sword, held in both of his hands.
Bloodshot eyes gleamed wickedly at them, while
their thick-lipped mouths split into wide, drooling
grins of anticipation.
Pawldo loosed an arrow, and immediately backed
up to leave an opening for Tristan. Daryth and Robyn
followed the prince, but with a gesture he cautioned
them to remain behind.
Finellen, however, took the prince by surprise. He
had planned to stand next to the dwarf and meet the
Firbolgs’ charge, but she raised the dagger Daryth
had given her, and uttered a bloodcurdling shriek.
Even the Firbolgs seemed momentarily taken aback.
“Outta my way, you overgrown bags of blubber!”
Finellen darted forward to attack. Tristan gaped at
the incongruous sight for a second—the dwarven
warrior came not as high as the waists of her antagonists—
and then leaped forward to support her
valiant attack.
A long arrow whooshed past the prince’s ear. Keren
was shooting now, but unfortunately the missile skittered
off the wall and bounced harmlessly down the
corridor.
In seconds, Finellen reached the Firbolgs. Instead
of stopping to fight, she tucked herself into a ball and
rolled between the legs of one of the creatures. As
soon as she had passed him, she straightened with a
motion too fast to see and thrust upward with the
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your bow.”
“Let me see it, please.”
Tristan instantly handed the weapon to the bard,
who peered quickly at the script on the blade. When
he looked back at the prince,Tristan saw that his
eyes held a new emotion. It could have been respect,
or even awe.
“Can you read it?” the prince asked.
“My prince,” said the bard. It was the first time he
had ever used the honorific in speaking to Tristan.
“You have found the Sword of Cymrych Hugh!”
Robyn gasped and stared, wide-eyed, back and
forth between the prince and the weapon. Tristan,
stunned, could think only of the mighty weapon he
held in his hand. Slayer of Firbolgs, and bane of the
enemies of the Ffolk, the Sword of Cymrych Hugh
was certainly the most fabled weapon in his
people’s history. Tristan still recalled Keren’s long
ballad about the hero that he had played at Arlen’s
funeral.
“What’s going on?” Daryth asked. “Who was Kimrick
Hue? I’m not from these parts, remember?”
“ ‘Cymrych Hugh’ was the first of the High Kings—
the man who united all of the Moonshae Islands
under a single strong, wise rule,” Tristan explained,
recalling his most basic history lessons. “Never
before or since have the Ffolk been as strongly
united. I remember fables telling of his death, at the
hand of some nightmarish beast. At the same time,
his sword was lost . . .”
“It is said,” Keren interjected, “that his sword will
be found again, so that the wielder can challenge the
beast that slayed him!”
Tristan looked at the weapon in Keren’s hand, and
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leave his hand. The crushing attack seemed to shake
the very ground, but the prince avoided it by a scant
inch. He saw Finellen tuck and roll again, this time
biting into a Firbolg’s hamstring with the small
dagger before reaching Tristan’s side. The dwarf ’s
victim howled in pain as his leg collapsed, and then
crashed heavily to the floor.
“Hey, ugly!” she cried, momentarily distracting the
Firbolg who had nearly crushed the prince. Tristan
scrambled to his feet and stood beside the dwarf. Two
Firbolgs now lay on the floor, but the remaining monster
threw away his broken sword and picked up one
of the clubs. It advanced cautiously, now prepared to
take this fight seriously.
None of them heard the clattering of hooves, but
suddenly the advancing Firbolg gasped and tumbled
forward. A great ivory horn erupted from its chest in
a shower of gore, and now they saw the proud form of
the unicorn, extracting itself from the mortally
pierced Firbolg.
For several seconds the companions regarded the
unicorn. The great beast returned their stares
impassively. Its snowy flanks were lathered and
flecked with blood, although the unicorn did not
seem to be wounded.
“Thank you, ancient one,” said Robyn, very quietly.
The eyes of the unicorn softened, and it tossed its
proud head. With a short whinny, it turned and
looked back the way it had come.
“Let’s follow it,” cried Robyn.
“Wait,” said Keren, in an urgent whisper. His eyes
were fixed upon the prince. “Tristan, where did you
get that sword?”
“I found it, in the same room where we found
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noticed that no torches burned here.
With a sudden snarl, a Firbolg sprang from the
darkness to the side of the door. Another emerged
from the same area, bearing a massive pickaxe in its
uplifted arms. They had apparently been surprised
at their work. The unicorn reared back and crushed
the skull of one with his slashing forehooves, while
Tristan leaped at the other, stabbing quickly, Again
the blade sizzled into Firbolg flesh, and the howling
creature fell over and died.
Seeking any other foes, they cautiously advanced
into the chamber.
“Look—we can bar these doors for a while,”
exclaimed the prince. Quickly they swung the portal
shut. Their combined strength could barely lift the
heavy crossbeam, but they finally dropped it into
place against the inside of the double doorway.
“That’ll slow up anyone, including Firbolgs!” Tristan
said with satisfaction.
As a group, they turned toward the doors through
which streamed shafts of sunlight. Skirting the black
mass in the center of the room, Tristan studied it
curiously. Pawldo made the first guess as to its
nature, however.
“My prince!” he cried, holding a clump of black
rock. “It’s just coal!”
Tristan thought the discovery interesting but
insignificant and continued toward the doors across
the room. Keren, however, paused immediately and
appeared to lose himself in thought.
“Indeed!” the bard finally cried, snapping his fingers.
“Quickly! Help me gather these wooden
benches! And those tools over there—someone grab
the ones with wooden handles. And hurry! There’s no
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205
thought of the bard’s fighting prowess. He felt frightened
and weak by comparison. “You keep it,” he said.
“You can do it—”
“The sword must be wielded by he who finds it,”
said the bard with a shake of his head. “And besides,
you are more fit to carry that weapon than you
know.”
Tristan wanted to argue, but the weapon seemed to
beckon him to take it. “I don’t know,” he replied, but
nonetheless reached for the simple leather hilt and
took the sword.
As they continued down the long passage, Tristan
saw the others glancing at him and the sword occasionally.
He hoped they weren’t as puzzled—and
amazed—as he was. Why had fate decreed that he
should be the one to pick it up? And what was he
going to do with it now that he had it?
Tristan was paying little attention to their surroundings,
as the little party moved cautiously forward,
soon passing several wooden doors but no
branching corridors. Suddenly Finellen called out.
“Wait a minute!” She turned to regard a huge pair
of oaken doors. They noticed that one of them was
slightly ajar. “I smell fresh air—let’s have a look in
here!”
Before anyone could disagree, she pushed the
slightly opened door with the point of her dagger, and
it swung freely inward. Before them they saw a huge
room—by far the largest chamber they had yet seen
in the Firbolgs’ complex. In the center of the room,
towering perhaps forty feet into the air, rose a black,
hulking mass, like a small mountain.
Sunlight streamed into the room from cracks in a
pair of massive wooden doors at the far end. They
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clouds of black smoke began to fill the room. Already
the fire seemed dangerously out of control.
Coughing, the companions stumbled toward the
doors leading out. Tears welled from their eyes as
the smoke stung. The clouds grew thicker every
second. The great unicorn raced ahead with them,
and Tristan knew that the Firbolgs would soon
smash the doors.
Keren threw open the huge portals and they all
staggered forth into sunlight and fresh air. A stream
of black smoke poured from the doorway, but rose
over their heads until dispersed by the breeze.
“We made it!” cried Robyn.
“Not so fast, deary,” grunted Finellen, pointing.
Between the forest and the temple, standing close
before them, stood some twenty Firbolgs. They were
arrayed in battle formation, which they maintained
as they began to advance.
Smoke poured from the doors behind them, and the
gray walls of the stronghold spread to either side.
They were trapped.
* * * * *
The enemy was very close now.
The cool, gray water of the Sea of Moonshae rolled
past the great body, as the leviathan began to move
with a new sense of purpose.
A rank pollution spread through the water, offending
the senses of the mighty creature, child of the
earthmother. The leviathan had killed many times,
but never had it sought out its victims with such
determination.
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time to lose!”
“What? Why?” asked Tristan, turning back.
“We can destroy this stronghold!”
Instantly, Tristan understood Keren’s plan. He
stumbled upon some loose boards in a corner of the
room and eagerly tossed them against the massive
pile of coal. Benches, and tools, and several unlit
torches discovered upon the walls, all increased the
size of the pile.
As they worked, they heard a heavy thud against
the door. Again and again the sound rocked through
the chamber, and Tristan thought that he heard the
creaking of a hinge as the timber barring the door
slowly threatened to give way. The great unicorn
heaved stalwartly against it, holding with the
strength of his body against the press of Firbolgs.
But now the pile was ready. Daryth, Tristan, and
Pawldo all carried flints, and each knelt down and
struck sparks into some shavings they had trimmed
from the heavy boards. The door creaked noisily,
nearly opening, as three small fires began to spread
through the shavings. Soon, tongues of flame licked
across boards that had been soaked with oil, apparently
to preserve their life. Now, the treatment only
hastened their destruction.
Robyn, Keren, and Finellen, meanwhile, ran to the
double doors leading outside. They threw their
weight into lifting the huge crossbar.
In less than a minute, three raging bonfires had
already begun to pop and sizzle. Sparks flew onto the
coal, but they knew it would take a great deal of heat
to ignite the stuff. The door creaked alarmingly, but
still the great beam held.
“Let’s get out of here,” called the prince, as choking
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10
FLIGHT
THE MONSTERS SPREAD into a thin line, advancing to
do battle. They held an assortment of deadly
weapons—swords, clubs studded with vicious spikes,
long battle-axes. Their most effective weapon was
their sheer size, and the inexorability of their march
toward Tristan and his companions.
The fire roared higher behind them, belching
smoke from the double doors.
“Any ideas?” the prince asked, half-heartedly.
“Not me,” replied Daryth, looking grimly at the
monsters.
This last group of Firbolgs had obviously been
posted to watch the stronghold exit. They did not
seem to be as stupid or undisciplined as the others. A
great bull of a Firbolg, with a high, bulging forehead
and a horrible red sear down his cheek, commanded
them, and led their charge.
Keren launched an arrow from his mighty bow. The
missile tore into the thigh of one of the Firbolgs,
dropping the creature in its tracks. The bard’s second
shot thudded solidly into the Firbolg leader’s shoulder,
but the creature ignored the wound. Pawldo also
fired, but his arrows seemed to be little more than
209
The leviathan emerged from the strait and
broached, rolling its serpentine form among the great
swells of the sheltered sea. Gray skies glowered overhead,
and many thin patches of mist and rain spread
across the horizon.
The leviathan turned slightly, as it sensed its prey
somewhere to the left. Soon, many long, narrow
shapes came into view, scuttling across the surface of
the sea like tiny waterbugs. The pollution of the water
became so strong that the mighty creature choked on
its own bile. Its rage grew unstoppable.
The leviathan opened its great jaws just before its
head broke the surface. Spray erupted as the powerful
tail drove the creature from the water. Higher and
higher the leviathan rose. At the same time, those
awesome jaws clamped together.
The leviathan tasted wood and blood in its mouth.
Splintered bits of the narrow shape fell to either side,
but the great bulk of it remained within that terrible
maw. The creature crashed back to the surface, and
then dove deep, carrying the shapeless mass of wood
and men to a permanent grave. Finally it opened its
mouth, letting the wreckage float free.
Turning toward the surface, it again began to rise.
There still remained a great deal of killing to do.
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Two Firbolgs stood before Tristan, but the unicorn’s
charge knocked one flat. The tough horn
turned the creature’s chest into a splintered mass of
blood and bone. Tristan ducked under the blow of the
other Firbolg and drove his potent blade upward.
With a blood-curdling scream, the Firbolg swooned
backward and died.
For a brief moment the prince paused in wonder.
He had slain a Firbolg with a single blow! Then,
another of the monsters charged toward him, and he
raised his guard.
A flash of brown crossed the periphery of his
vision, and Canthus led the hounds into the fight. At
the same time, a shrieking black shadow dove from
the skies to scratch at the eyes of another Firbolg.
Crying shrilly, Sable rose quickly to make another
attack.
“Hey, you guys!” The high-pitched voice, Tristan
know, could only belong to Newt. Sure enough, the
little dragon popped into view in the midst of the
melee.
“Boy, I sure played a trick on them! Did you see the
way they rolled around and stabbed the air and
looked so silly? I laughed so hard I could hardly stay
invisible!” Newt clasped his forepaws, almost as if he
were applauding himself, which he probably was.
“Thanks, little friend!” said Tristan. I thought I
detected your . . . unique touch!”
“Look!” Robyn cried, pointing to the rest of the Firbolgs.
They saw that Newt’s enchantment was wearing
off. Although groggy, the Firbolgs were looking in
stupefaction at the companions, standing among the
dead bodies of their comrades.
“Run!” shouted the prince. “To the horses!”
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pinpricks to the hulking attackers.
Robyn was standing beside the proud unicorn,
oddly calm. Tristan saw Finellen fingering her
dagger and starting to slip forward.Yet their chances
of winning the fight appeared slim, until, suddenly,
something glimmered in the field before them.
“What’s happening?” Before he could think of an
answer to Robyn’s question, Tristan realized that
many of the Firbolgs had stopped advancing. Some
fell thrashing to the ground, while others swung
their weapons viciously against something unseen in
the air.
The scar-faced Firbolg leader turned and bellowed
orders at his minions. Then he, too, seemed to lose his
mind, striking at nothing, and grunting in fear. For a
brief second, the prince’s mind reeled with confusion.
Then he understood what was happening.
“Come on!” he cried, leaping forward toward the
half dozen or so Firbolgs who had not been affected
by the strange madness. Tristan knew that he and
his companions had been given a fantastic opportunity,
but they needed to capitalize upon it quickly.
The white unicorn thundered past him, its ivory
horn zeroing in on the chest of a Firbolg. Finellen,
uttering a bloodthirsty yell, sprinted along at his
side. Her eyes, he noticed, glowed with a savage joy.
Twin streaks flashed over his head, and he knew
that the two archers had gone to work. Keren
seemed to have recovered his aim, for his bolt
lodged deep in the throat of one of the Firbolgs,
striking it, gasping and dying, to the ground.
Pawldo’s missile lodged in the eye of another Firbolg,
triggering pain. Berserk, the Firbolg bolted
into the thickets.
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Beast could feel the massive body rising—could
sense the awesome might of its attack, as it rose
toward the fleet. Kazgoroth even guessed, correctly,
which longship would be the creature’s first victim.
In the guise of Thelgaar, the Beast had led the fleet
of longships from Iron Bay on a journey south, along
the coast of Gwynneth. The heavy rams had indeed
proved troublesome, as three ships had foundered in
moderate seas during the voyage. Now, however,
Kazgoroth knew that the potent enchantments laid
on the beams would give them their only chance of
dealing with the leviathan.
The massive creature erupted from the water like
lava from a volcano. One entire ship, and fifty men,
met an instant end between the crushing jaws. As
the huge shape, bigger than anything living in the
world, crashed back to the water, another longship
capsized from the monstrous waves.
“To your oars!” the figure of Thelgaar bellowed,
from the bow of his longship. Somehow the voice carried
clearly across the churning sea, to the ears of
every northman in the fleet.
And with the voice came a deadening of fear and
thought.
The northmen heard the words, but mostly they
felt the power of Kazgoroth’s unnatural essence. And
the power enchanted them, so that they became
capable of nothing more than following the orders of
their king. Certainly, without this enchantment, the
appearance of the leviathan would have driven them
mad with terror.
But now the longships surged forward as callused
hands took the oars. Transfixed by the awesome
sight of their leader, the northmen ignored the
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As a group they bolted into the thicket. Daryth
led the way, forcing his way through the woods to
the small clearing where they had left the mounts.
The steeds, unharmed, nickered in welcome at
their approach.
Tristan followed the party in the rear, keeping an
eye on the Firbolgs. They seemed not entirely recovered,
and he guessed—at least he hoped—that they
would not be able to organize a pursuit for several
minutes yet.
The companions mounted quickly, thankful that
they had brought extra horses. They turned to ride
from the area when the building behind them shuddered
and groaned. Smoke billowed heavily from the
door they had emerged from. The ground shook with
the force of a heavy crash, and suddenly the smoke
blossomed from the top of the temple.
“The roof is collapsing!” shouted Keren. “Look!”
The smoke trails emerging from the door immediately
reversed course as a tremendous cloud rose
into the air. The fire built to a roaring intensity as its
air supply improved. They heard a tremendous sucking
noise as air was pulled into the building, feeding
the flames.
The force of the sucking draft uprooted small
bushes, and created a forceful wind. Orange flames
towered into the sky.
This fire would burn for a long time.
* * * * *
Kazgoroth sensed the presence of the huge shape
as it passed far below the surface of the sea. The
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body, would crush or swamp another vessel.
Kazgoroth watched perhaps a score of his vessels
die thus, before the leviathan began to tire. Now,
instead of diving, it swam just below the surface
among the longships. Its great back rolled above the
water like the coils of a snake. It turned suddenly
and caved in the hull of a longship. It capsized
another with a flip of its tail.
“Attack!” Thelgaar’s voice boomed forward, propelled
by the power of Kazgoroth. “Ram the beast!”
The longships now veered toward the monster,
triggering dozens of collisions as the sailors, their
wits slowed by the enchantment, could not take
proper care with the maneuver. Nonetheless, a hundred
longships closed in on the creature.
Several died from the powerful strokes of the tail,
or the crushing bite of the massive jaws. While
making one of these bites, however, a ram plunged
through the leviathan’s jaw. Roaring with pain, the
creature bucked backwards, sinking several more
ships with the frenzy of its agony.
Kazgoroth felt some small dismay, for the fleet suffered
greater losses than the Beast had anticipated.
It cared nothing for the dying sailors, only for the
loss of valuable tools in the master plan.
Still, the northmen’s persistence began to tell. As
the leviathan thrashed, another of the wicked rams
plunged into its flank, tracing a long and bloody
wound before breaking from the ship. Now the sea
creature’s thrashing became more frantic, and a
dozen longships suffered accidental destruction or
damage. Several more of the rams slashed into the
slippery flanks, and the creature’s struggles began to
weaken.
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deaths of their comrades, seeking only to hear and
obey the next command.
“Swing starboard!” The next order rang out with
the same clarity as the first.
Like choreographed dancers, several hundred longships
swung gracefully to the right. The frothing surface
where the leviathan had disappeared melted
back to the dark gray of the rest of the sea. The longships
raced ahead, as sails were trimmed and oarpower
gained momentum.
Kazgoroth again felt the leviathan climbing, and
calmly watched it destroy another longship in the
same manner as the first. The massive tail smashed
another vessel to splinters as the creature crashed
back to the surface.
The Beast waited again, pleased with the effect of
its enchantment. The northmen rowed like automatons,
showing no signs of panic. Kazgoroth knew that
the leviathan would soon change its tactics, for the
leaping and diving attacks would sap its strength too
quickly.
And then, when it attacked from the surface, the
poisoned rams would work their own magic. The
crewmen on his ship saw Thelgaar stoop down and
open a long crate that he had stored in the bow. From
the crate he extracted a harpoon—one such as these
sailors had never seen before. Thicker than a giant’s
wrist, it seemed nearly as long as one of the oars. The
head of the weapon was a wicked barb of black, corroded
steel. The air around the barb shimmered from
the effect of its putrid essence.
The leviathan attacked again, and again, diving
deep and then crushing a ship between its awesome
jaws. Often, its tail, or the huge splash created by its
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when I did. If I had been just a little later, well, who
knows what would have happened? But there’s certainly
no point in dwelling on that!”
“Well done, Newt,” said the bard, laughing. “It
seems we owe you our lives!”
“Well, of course you do. I mean, really—what did
you expect? Say, aren’t you that bard fellow they
dragged in awhile back? I thought you were dead,
but, oh dear, it seems that you’re not. Oh, this really
is too bad—”
“Why is it too bad that our friend is alive?”
demanded Robyn.
“Well, I do so hate to be wrong, and I told them all
that you were probably dead, but you had to show up,
alive as a hive of bees, and now—oh, but don’t get me
wrong. I think it’s really quite splendid that you’re
alive—really I do.”
“Indeed,” nodded Keren. “Well, I’m quite relieved to
hear that, Newt.”
“Me too!” snorted Finellen. “I’ve always wanted to
owe my fife to a blue worm!”
Newt just said “Hummph!” and turned invisible.
The companions rode hard, paying little attention
to direction, only seeking to put much distance
between themselves and the Firbolg. The horses flew
eagerly across the rugged terrain, forcing their way
through dense thickets of thorns and creepers.
After some miles, the unicorn gave a signal and
they all reined in, briefly. Robyn dismounted and
walked over to the magnificent animal who regarded
them with huge eyes. She stroked its neck, and Tristan
would have sworn that words exchanged
between them, although he heard nothing.
Then, with a proud toss of its head, the unicorn
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“Forward!” cried Thelgaar, in a voice intended for
his own crew alone. The longship darted forward, the
figure of the white-bearded king standing proudly in
the bow. His upraised arm held the impossibly large
harpoon.
The ship drove close to the leviathan’s massive
head, which now rolled listlessly at the surface. Thelgaar’s
powerful shoulders flexed, and the harpoon
rocketed forward to plunge deep into the shiny black
shape, just behind one of the massive eyes.
The leviathan twitched convulsively.A long column
of bubbles arose from its mouth. The huge creature
struggled to keep its eyes open as it sank into the
dark and frigid depths.
* * * * *
“That was some fight, wasn’t it? I haven’t had that
much fun in, oh, I don’t know how many years!” The
little dragon chattered incessantly, as they slowly left
the Firbolg stronghold behind.
“Say, I’ve got a great idea! Let’s go back and do it
again! There must be a few Firbolgs left for us to torture!”
Newt giggled with excitement at the thought
of additional pranks.
“Um, maybe some other time,” said Tristan, gently
trying to dissuade their enthusiastic comrade.
“And where did you come from, friend?” asked
Keren, as the little dragon remained visible for several
seconds at a stretch.
“Why, I’m Newt, of course, and I live around here.
Your friends had gotten themselves into terrible
trouble, but lucky for them I happened to come along
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captain’s eyes smoldered with bloodlust, and Grunnarch
fancied that they grew brighter at the thought
of the killing to come.
“Do not worry,” said Laric, swinging into the saddle
of his sleek black stallion. “Mercy will not be a concern
of mine.” Laric swung his arm forward, as his
red cape made a fluid arc around him. Behind him,
one hundred frenzied Riders struck out for the next
cantrev.
In the ruins of the village, the bulk of Grunnarch’s
army feasted and drank well into the night. Many of
the slaves—young women—suffered horribly, as
objects of pleasure for the raiders.
The following morning, the northmen reembarked,
sailing down the coast to strike at another fishing
cantrev. Again and again they struck the small, isolated
communities of the Ffolk, burning, killing, and
enslaving. The Bloodriders rode miles inland, paralleling
the progress of the fleet as it sailed southward
along the coast, taking particular pleasure in wreaking
destruction and death upon the inland Ffolk.
After several raids, the alarm was carried throughout
the countryside. The word of the depredations
traveled even faster than the scourging advance of
the Bloodriders. The deeds of those scarlet-garbed
horsemen exceeded the horrors of their seaborne
countrymen. The Bloodriders could not burden themselves
with slaves, so survivors of their raids were
rare.
As pandemonium spread in the land, however, the
northmen found village after village abandoned
before they had reached it. Valuables and livestock
had been removed, and the inhabitants had fled further
inland.
DARKWALKER ON MOONSHAE
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turned and galloped away. The sleek white coat was
visible among the tangled fens for some time, and
they all watched until it had disappeared from sight.
Robyn said nothing, so they returned to their
flight, riding now without panic but covering ground
very quickly. Although Tristan wasn’t certain, he
thought their course was carrying them generally
toward the east, away from the direction they had
entered the fens.
Behind them, rising higher and higher every
minute, a thick black pillar of smoke billowed into
the air.
* * * * *
Grunnarch the Red selected his first target with
care. The shock of the landing caught the large fishing
village nearly by surprise. Many of the Ffolk fled
inland, but they were forced to leave all of their possessions
behind. Those who did not flee the raiders
swiftly enough fell dead beneath swinging battleaxes
or were taken as slaves and felt the bite of cold
chains,
The northmen torched the village after collecting
everything of value. The fishing boats at anchor in
the sheltered cove were sunk or burned, and much
livestock was slaughtered. Even before the flames
climbed from the roof of the last cottage, the Bloodriders
had disembarked their horses.
“Go,” ordered the Red King. “Make haste, and show
no mercy.”
Laric smiled, the expression stretching the pasty
skin across his cheeks into a grotesque mask. The
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had climbed slightly from the lowlands of the swamp,
and they could look back on their path of the last few
days.
“Look at that,” remarked Daryth in awe. The towering
column of smoke still dominated the sky
behind them.
“How many Firbolgs do you suppose we killed?”
asked Tristan.
“A lot, I’m sure—but a lot of them got away, without
a doubt,” replied Keren.
“And every one of ’em is looking for us,” muttered
Pawldo, dismounting stiffly as they halted for the
night.
They decided not to risk building a fire, and the
warm summer night made this no discomfort. Still
tense and jumpy from the intense combat and flight
of the day, the companions sat quietly in their grassy
bower. The light of a half moon, pouring from a clear
sky, gave them illumination and some small comfort.
The crimson glow in the western sky added a surreal
effect to their surroundings.
“You haven’t told us how you came to be the guests
of the Firbolgs,” said Robyn, after a long period of
silence.
“Well, it was foolish, actually. I decided to take a
short cut—through Myrloch Vale—on my way to the
coast.” Keren smiled, sheepishly. “It was the long way
around, to tell the truth, but I couldn’t pass up the
chance to see Myrloch again, when I was so close.
“Anyway, I got ambushed practically as soon as I
came over the pass—a bunch of them got me surrounded
and tackled me. Sable put more than one
eye out, but they almost got him too.”
“It’s lucky he got away. He told me about you,”
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Finding a large and sheltered bay in the center of
Corwell’s eastern coastline, Grunnarch ordered his
fleet beached. As planned, here the Bloodriders
reunited with the army. A few of the older men were
detailed to watch the slaves and the ships, while the
rest of the warriors prepared to march.
It was time, Grunnarch knew, to begin the second
phase of Thelgaar’s master plan.
* * * * *
“Where’s Newt?”
Robyn’s question brought the companions up short.
They reined in their mounts and looked around, realizing
that there had been no sign of the little dragon
for some time. They did not risk calling aloud for
him—they could not take the chance of advertising
their position.
“He must have gone back home,” surmised the
prince. “Wherever that is.”
“He’s quite a character,” observed Keren. “We owe
him a lt.”
“Indeed,” the others agreed. The diminutive serpent—
Finellen described him as a faerie dragon—
had saved their lives with his timely “prank.”
“But our food will last a little longer now,” observed
Pawldo, ruefully contemplating his almost empty
saddlebags.
“We’re better off without him,” observed Finellen.
“You can trust a faerie dragon as far as you can see
him—when he’s invisible.”
By nightfall they emerged from the fens, and found
a dry and grassy clearing for their camp. The ground
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“but not its core. Gwynneth is in dire danger, and the
help of your people would aid greatly in the thwarting
of this threat.”
“Oh no!” objected Finellen, with surprising vehemence.
“We’re not about to get entangled in a bunch
of human problems! It’s like my mother used to tell
me—if you see a human coming, you see trouble
coming!
“I owe you my thanks, for getting me out of that
cell. But don’t go expectin’ us to bail you out of
another of your big messes!”
“But this is not a problem that threatens only the
humans,” argued Tristan. “All the peaceful Ffolk of
Gwynneth—including those of Myrloch Vale—are in
danger. Can’t you convince your people of that?”
“I couldn’t even try!” shot back the dwarf. “I’m
sorry, but this is a problem you’ll have to work out for
yourselves.”
They tried for several hours to get the stubborn
dwarf to reconsider, but she was adamant. Finally,
they dropped the topic, as tempers on both sides
neared the breaking point.
In the morning, Finellen was gone.
* * * * *
For many days this time, Erian remained locked in
the body of the wolf. Only gradually did his human
form return, in a process of nearly unendurable pain.
He finally awakened far inland, in an area of near
wilderness. As before, he was naked and covered
with blood.
Horror gripped his mind with icy fingers. He knew
DARKWALKER ON MOONSHAE
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Robyn explained.
“Well, isn’t he a smart bird!” laughed the bard. He
sobered quickly. “I owe you all a lot, and I thank you.
You know, there might even be a song in this!” Keren
leaned back thoughtfully, humming a bit of melody.
The dwarf snorted. Scratching her ear with a dirty
finger, Finellen looked around. Her whiskers
twitched irritably. “You know,” she said suddenly, her
rich female voice emerging incongruously from the
bushy beard. “For humans—and a halfling—you
folks are not all that bad. I’m proud to have fought
with you.”
The simple statement, they all realized, meant a
great deal. The dwarves were traditionally aloof and
haughty toward the shorter-lived races, rarely deigning
to involve themselves in human quarrels.
“We’re honored by your praise,” responded Tristan,
“We, too, look highly on the chance that brought you
among us as a companion.”
“Where are your people?” asked Robyn. “Do you
live near here?”
“My people live wherever we want, within the borders
of Myrloch Vale. It happens that, this year, we’ve
taken residence in a comfortable group of caves, a
few days north of here, in the Highlands.
“It was there that we saw the signs of Firbolg activity.
The fen country, down there, wasn’t such a bad
place in the past.We knew of this Firbolg stronghold,
but it’s never been a problem before. Lately, though,
they started hauling coal here from the mountains. I
was sent to investigate. Now,” she said, chuckling
wryly, “I can tell my people that the problem has
burned itself out.”
“Perhaps one part of the problem,” observed Keren,
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And every night the moon grew larger.
* * * * *
“You know a lot, for a man who has trained hounds
all of his life.” Keren’s comment was casual, but
Daryth sat bolt upright, staring at the bard.
“Yeah—I’ve picked up a few skills here and there,”
he said, shrugging.
The small fire created an island of warmth in the
cool forest. The two men sat on either side of the
blaze. Tristan and Robyn had gone for a walk, and
Pawldo slumbered within a nearby mountain of furs.
“It’s almost as if you had been trained by masters
in your craft—say, those masters who teach at the
Academy of Stealth— the Pasha of Calimshan’s
school for spies?”
Daryth was silent for a moment, Finally, he
chuckled. “You are well-traveled, indeed.
“Yes, I attended the sultan’s ‘school’—I was trained
as a spy, or a thief, or assassin, however you choose to
describe it. I have also,” he added, defensively,
“trained desert racers and other dogs for many
years!”
“Then, why are you here?” The bard studied
Daryth’s eyes very carefully as he asked the question.
For a moment, the Calishite looked away.
“I ran away from the Pasha, the school, everything,
I got into some trouble with the Pasha over rights to
. . . some property I had acquired, and became a
sailor the same night. Corwell was the first port of
call, and I jumped ship there.”
The bard leaned back again, satisfied. “You fight
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now that he could not return to the world of men.
Choking out sobs of agony and fear, he staggered
through the wilds.
For weeks he ate only such food as his bare hands
could gather. Nuts, berries, grubs, and even mice all
passed his smacking lips—he cared not for taste, nor
appearance. He only craved enough food to stay
alive. Once he stole a chicken from an isolated farm,
giving him the best meal since returning to his
human body.
He moved aimlessly, or so he thought. Driven on
by the consuming horror in his mind, he staggered
through the wilderness, first moving north, and
then east, He paid no attention to his location, but
his direction was guided by an instinct deeper than
his consciousness.
Gradually, night by night, the moon faded to black,
and then slowly grew. It fattened over his head, passing
from sliver, to crescent, to half moon. And still it
kept growing. Behind the moon, came the Tears of
the Moon, growing brighter and more distinct each
passing night, a glittering necklace of light.
A consuming fear gripped him with the approach
of the next full moon. That one, he knew, would be
the summer solstice—the brightest full moon of the
year. What effect this would have he could only
guess, but all his guesses led him to stark nightmares.
Several times he resolved to take his own life,
before the nightmare could become real. But always
he lacked the will. Driven by his fear, madness slowly
took his mind from him. Always he kept moving, as if
toward some unknown destiny that had been planted
within him by Kazgoroth’s bite.
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“We all did pretty well,” reflected the prince. “But if
my father were here, I’m sure he’d point out a few
mistakes.” He did not try to hide his bitterness.
“Don’t be so hard on him!” Robyn whirled, surprising
him with her intensity. “Why do you two have to
fight all the time? It’s not your fault—alone—but
neither of you is willing to admit that the other has a
point of view.”
“I don’t know why we do it. He’s always wanted me
to be better at whatever I do—and, maybe, I do some
things to annoy him. I will not be his servant!”
“I don’t think he wants that,” she said, a gentle
smile softening her face, “I think he just wants his
son to be a worthy prince of the Ffolk. And if he’d
been with us today, he’d know that you are!”
The praise from Robyn overwhelmed all other emotions.
Tristan felt that he would fight a Firbolg barehanded
if she would smile at him afterward.
“We needed you there as well,” he said. “It was
remarkable the way you understood the unicorn.”
She smiled. “When something like that happens,
it surprises me that no one else can hear—the message
was so plain! It was like the desecration of the
ground under that building—I could sense the evil
there, and it surprised me that you didn’t see it.”
“Robyn,” the prince began, awkwardly. He turned
to the maiden and reached out for her. Her eyes met
his, and she deliberately leaned into him so that
their lips met. There was nothing tentative about
their kiss. It was as if each moment of their separate
lives had been racing toward this moment. He pulled
her to him, his blood pounding at the feel of her body
against him. She met him eagerly, and for a moment
their nerves and muscles and bones melted into each
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very well. You must have been a good student!”
Daryth laughed, and then grew serious. “You know,
I’ve done a lot of fighting against things in my life,
but I’ve never fought for anything before.”
“Indeed,” replied the bard. “Well, you’re fighting for
Corwell now.”
* * * * *
Tristan and Robyn walked slowly together in the
cool night. Neither of them felt like sleeping—at
least, not right now. As the moon illuminated her
exquisite face, the prince wanted to take her in his
arms, but his courage failed him.
“You did very well, back there,” said Robyn, quietly,
“Your father would have been proud of you.”
Tristan froze, surprised by the compliment. He
recovered his voice quickly, enough to say “Thank
you,” then turned toward the maiden.
They stood together on a rocky lakeshore, gazing
at a world that appeared to have never known violence
or death. The moon, half full and followed by
her glittering Tears, stood near the zenith. Thousands
of stars— more than he had ever seen
before—glittered from the black sky. Though their
camp, and the small fire, was just a few steps away,
the screening rocks hid it perfectly. It might have
been very distant, as far as Caer Corwell, for all
they could see of it.
Tristan reluctantly thought about his father. The
king must now be bitterly disappointed in his son—
leaving in the middle of the night, ignoring the command
of the company his father had given him.
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More than a hundred longships had been scattered
across the steel-gray Sea of Moonshae. Splinters of
wood, survivors, and bodies all bobbed in the cold
waters. Many of the remaining longships wallowed
low in the water, nearly foundering, or they listed to
the side with damaged hulls. The battle was won, but
not without cost.
A low rumbling sound bubbled from the depths,
and the water around the center of the fleet churned,
steamed, and frothed. Then gouts of fire erupted from
the depths. Two dozen ships vanished immediately,
and twenty-foot waves rolled across an equal number,
swamping or capsizing them.
The sea boiled for many minutes.When the roaring
finally subsided, the surviving vessels regrouped
slowly, delayed by broken masts, missing oars, and
torn sails. Finally, the vessels limped toward the
nearest shore.
* * * * *
The goddess feared that her pain would drive her
mad. An aching despair grew inside her. Even
through the curtain of her grief, she recoiled in terrible
awareness of the increased power of the Beast.
The stabbing sore of the Darkwell inflamed her
skin, sending poisonous tendrils crawling throughout
her being. The passing of the leviathan unleashed
potent venom from the black pool, and the Balance
shifted dangerously. The numbness—the urge to
sleep—penetrated the goddess more deeply than ever.
Suddenly she felt very tired
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other. . . . Then Robyn gently pushed Tristan away.
“When we get back home ” the prince started to
speak in a rush, “I want to—I mean, will you—”
“No.”
The simple word brought him up short. For a
moment, jealousy surged through him again. “What!
Is it because of Daryth?”
“Don’t be a child,” she rebuked him. “It isn’t—at
least, not that I know of. He means a lot to me—he is
a good friend. And so are you.”
The classification, as a ‘good friend,’ came like a
bucket of ice water poured over Tristan. He turned
away, not knowing whether to cry out in rage, or to
sob in despair. After a second, he turned back.
“I want you to know that I love you.”
She smiled, her eyes moist, and kissed him quickly
again. Then she turned and walked slowly back to
the fire, leaving him standing in the forest that
seemed, suddenly, to grow very cold.
* * * * *
Pain wracked the giant body. Grayness clouded its
vision, and it was not the grayness of the darkened
sea. Its great muscles flexed violently, then relaxed.
Slowly it sank, knowing only that burning pain.
And then the pain disappeared, leaving behind a
warm, comfortable glow. Grayness became bright,
and the arms of the goddess beckoned.
Thus the leviathan died.
* * * * *
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BOOK III
* * * * *
Roaring flames rose high into the sky as the cantrev
burned. Wails rose from the pyre in a hopeless, keening
chorus of death. Ringed around the little community,
and with bloodstained spears prodding back
into the flames any villagers attempting to save themselves,
the Bloodriders observed the carnage.
Strangely motionless, they stared into the fire as if
mesmerized. The hellish glow reflected from their
crimson cloaks, and seemed to glow unnaturally in
the eyes of the bloody Riders and their black, shining
horses.
And all at once the fire surged upward, and the
Bloodriders raised their voices in a throaty chant.
The words seemed meaningless, and yet carried dire
portent in a language so ancient that it should not
have been known by any of the sinister horsemen. Yet
now they spoke.
And they understood.
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11
GAVIN
ABLACK TENTACLE SLITHERED toward Robyn, wrapping
tightly around her calf, searing her skin
with venomous suckers. Screaming, she tried to
crawl away, but the tentacle dragged her along the
stony ground.
Another grasping tendril reached around her
waist, squeezing the breath from her lungs in a
painful vise. The ground shifted and cracked, as a
great fissure opened beside her. It seemed bottomless—
within its bowels seethed an orange tumult,
rumbling slowly.
She turned and grabbed at the ground, uprooting
small plants as the tentacles dragged her toward the
abyss. Suddenly, from the black smoke that seemed
to swirl everywhere, a pair of white slender arms
emerged. Even in that foul setting, the arms were
wrapped in the whitest satin, with soft hands that
promised comfort and safety.
But then the tentacles pulled, and the arms, and
finally the hands, vanished into the black smoke.
With a low moan, Robyn awakened, drenched
with perspiration. Sitting up, she held a hand to
her mouth as if to stifle any further sounds, and
232
looked around.
The camp was quiet. Tristan and Daryth slept quietly
by the fire, while Pawldo snored under a mound
of furs in the shadows. The fire had died so that only
an occasionally deep red flicker showed among the
coals.
Canthus, lying next to the prince, kicked and
whimpered in his sleep, Twitching, he rolled almost
into the coals.
Then Robyn saw Keren, standing alone in the
shadow of a great rock. The bard faced her, the light
of the half moon casting his face into eerie shadows.
Still, the shock and pain written across his features
were plainly visible.
“What is it?” Robyn asked, getting to her feet. “I’m
frightened.”
“I do not know. Never have I had such a nightmare!
This is a portent of something dire, indeed.”
“I had a nightmare, too.” She shuddered. “It was
the most frightening thing I could imagine!”
The bard put a comforting arm around Robyn, and
they sat before the coals. She threw several small
sticks into the embers, and they quickly crackled into
light.
Suddenly Canthus leaped to his feet, growling
nervously into the darkness. Stiff-legged, he walked
about the camp, finally settling nervously behind
Robyn and Keren, alertly studying the woods to their
backs.
“He senses it, too,” Robyn said.
“I can only guess, but I think the goddess has been
struck a cruel blow. Perhaps, even, the loss of one of
her children.”
“Kamerynn! The unicorn!” For a moment, Robyn
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the bulk of his force into the cantrev.
Most of the inhabitants had left, but some still
emerged from their cottages, terror-stricken, as the
raiders swarmed through. For these, there would be
no escape.
Bloodlust seemed to pound in his temples as the
Red King bellowed his challenge. An old woman
turned to face him, giving her daughters a chance to
escape, but Grunnarch, giving a sharp laugh, cut off
her head in a single stroke. Others of his men
grabbed the daughters—barely young women—and
dragged them screaming into the cottage.
For a moment Grunnarch looked around, realizing
that his vision had grown hazy and red. Panting, he
gradually became aware of a pounding headache.
He watched numbly as two children running in
terror were spitted by his men upon a long spear,
first one, then the other, and cast casually aside. The
Red King felt suddenly nauseous at the sight, and
turned to vomit against the cottage.
He turned again to regard the scene of battle, and
he could barely recall its details. Bodies, most belonging
to the Ffolk, lay scattered throughout his field of
vision.
Somehow, the war seemed to have lost its thrill.
* * * * *
For two more days they continued the journey to
the east, finally entering the pastoral cantrevs of
Eastern Corwell. Tristan had rarely visited this part
of the kingdom, connected as it was to the rest of the
realm by a narrow corridor of land between Myrloch
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felt truly forlorn, as she imagined that magnificent
creature killed.
“Perhaps, or the leviathan—there is no telling.”
“Look!” cried the woman, as her gaze crossed the
sky.
Above them, a hundred streaks of light flashed
briefly between the stars, and then blinked away.
Still other flashes followed, thousands and thousands
of tiny blinking lines in the sky, as if the moon
herself wept.
Keren’s arm was warm around her shoulders, and
Robyn drew some hope from her friend’s presence.
The two of them remained thus through the long
hours until morning.
* * * * *
The men of the cantrev spread across the field
before the Red King’s northmen, and Grunnarch
smiled at the thought of the approaching combat.
“To the kill!” cried the king, and the fine of northmen
surged forward. A deep bellow rumbled from the
raiders, and the men of the Ffolk wavered.
Nonetheless, these farmers and craftsmen stood
hard against the charge. Outnumbered four to one by
the bearded, howling attackers, the cantrev men
fought for time to allow their women and children to
escape.
Grunnarch cut open the chest of a farmer, casually
stepping on the dying man as he sought another
victim. Around him, his men took a bloody toll of the
Ffolk. While some of the raiders closed in to wipe out
the last pockets of resisting fighters, Grunnarch led
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ear-splitting grin. He certainly was the largest
human the prince had ever seen. A flowing black
beard combined with thick, curling hair of the same
color all but concealed his broad face. His smile,
which made his eyes sparkle, revealed an array of
chipped and broken teeth. His garments were heavy
and serviceable, albeit worn and grimy.
“I am Gavin, smith of Cantrev Myrrdale,”
explained the stranger, in a voice that thundered
through the night.
“Thanks for your welcome,” responded Tristan, dismounting
before the smith. The prince introduced
himself and his companions. If the smith recognized
the Kendrick name as his king’s, he gave no notice of
the fact.
The companions relieved their horses of the burdens
of saddles and bridles. Tristan noticed the
hounds gathering eagerly around the fire, and he
saw for the first time a large kettle, bubbling and
steaming in the coals. A truly delightful odor rose
from the pot. Even considering the size of the cook,
the pot held far more than one man could eat.
“Now, won’t you join me for a bite?” called the smith,
when their horses had been tended. “There’s plenty
for all!”
“Why did you cook such a large batch?” asked
Robyn, looking at the simmering stew. “Did you know
we were coming?” Her question, Tristan sensed, was
only half facetious.
“Why, not you in particular,” replied the smith,
chuckling heartily, “But this is the last night of my
journey, and I had a full haunch of mutton left. I have
often found that the means to be generous will often
result in an opportunity for the same arising!” He
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Vale and Llyrath Forest—a corridor which could be
traveled only with difficulty.
In fact, the prince was not altogether certain that
they had, in fact, reentered the kingdom until late
one afternoon when they finally stumbled across an
actual road.
“We’ll certainly come upon a fishing cantrev soon,”
said Tristan to Keren. “And there you should have no
trouble finding passage to Callidyrr.We’ll accompany
you until then.”
The bard looked wistful. “It galls that I’ve been
ordered to return to the High King, for it seems certain
that the adventure, and hence the tales, of this
summer will occur here on Gwynneth.”
Idly, the bard strummed a few notes upon his harp.
He tried several variations on the tune, until he
found one that he liked. He repeated this one several
times, and gradually a look of contentment grew
upon his face.
As darkness began to creep into the eastern sky,
they came upon a small hollow where a little campfire
twinkled cheerfully, and a string of donkeys
stood patiently nearby. A figure shuffled slowly
around the fire, silhouetted in its glow, and from its
size the prince worried that they had stumbled
across a renegade Firbolg.
Then a booming voice, unmistakably human,
rumbled up the road to them.
“Well met, travelers! Would you come and sup with
me? A fire is always warmer with the kindling of conversation
to feed it!”
The silhouette turned into a great bear of a man as
he moved into the dusky clearing, greeting them
with exaggeratedly widespread arms and a huge,
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“I’ve been to that place, I have,” boasted the smith.
“in the service of our king himself, against the northmen
on Moray. That would be yer father, I’m
thinkin’.” Gavin looked toward the prince.
“Yes, I am Prince of Corwell.”
“And how fares our king?”
“He was . . . fine, when I left him. He has ordered
the gathering of companies from the cantrevs—we
have had reports of a great mustering of northmen.”
“Indeed?” Gavin sat up straight. For the first time,
a look of concern came over his face, “Perhaps I
should not have left my home.” Nervously, the giant
smith looked toward the east.
“Myrrdale . . . Is that on the coast?” The prince
could not remember the town.
“No, some twenty miles inland. It should be safe
enough, even if war comes to the eastern cantrevs. I
doubt the northmen would strike very far inland.
And we’ll be there early tomorrow, anyway . . . No, no,
I’ve naught to worry about.” Still, the big smith cast
many glances toward the east, and they knew he
wished to be home.
“It’s my little girls I’m missin’ the most,” Gavin
said, wistfully staring into the flames, “They’re the
cutest little mites this side of Myrloch, if I do say so
myself. The spittin’ image of their mother, my dear
Sharreen.”
“I’d like to meet them,” Robyn said, smiling wistfully
at the thought of the man’s love for his family.
She wondered if her own father had loved her the
same way.
The second flask of rye finally worked its effects
upon the companions, and they fell asleep around
the fire. For the first time in many days, they did
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threw back his shaggy head and roared with laughter,
as if he had just made a great joke.
“And here tonight,” he continued, gesturing expansively,
“I have good company, and enough food for us
all.”
“Indeed,” observed the bard, “although the good
fortune would seem to be our own.”
“Let it be all of ours! Many a night I’ve been on the
road, and camped beside a small fire with nought but
me asses to keep me company. Oh, and it’s nice
enough that they are, but very short on conversation!”
Again, the smith convulsed himself with hilarity,
and the others could not suppress smiles of
amusement.
The mutton stew tasted fabulous after the dry
trail fare that had sustained them for a week.
Gavin produced a flask of biting rye whiskey that
added a smooth glow to the meal. All of the companions
ate like starving wolves, and the smith like a
starving bear, but the pot was still only half empty
when they could eat no more. In a flourish of generosity,
the smith then saw that the hounds had
plenty to eat.
They fed the fire with large logs, and built it perhaps
higher than caution warranted. Still, no one
complained—it just added to the pleasurable atmosphere.
Tristan leaned back against a tree, enjoying the
blaze. “It almost feels like we’re home again,” he said,
stretching leisurely.
“ ‘Again’?” asked the smith. “And where is it ye’ve
been?”
“Through Myrloch Vale,” replied the bard, “from
Caer Corwell.”
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smith led his string of donkeys on foot, but he had no
difficulty matching the pace of the others, who were
mounted. As they rode, Keren worked some more
with his tune, finally developing it into a delightful
melody.
“What is that?” asked Robyn.
“Just a sort of a ballad I’m working on. Perhaps I’ll
play it for you when I’ve finished.”
“I’d like that,” she answered, humming a piece of
the tune as he went back to work. The hounds
bounded through the fields and forests to either side
with energy Tristan had not seen in them since their
flight from the Firbolg’s lair.
The road wound easily up the low ridge, with a
scarcely noticeable grade, and soon they came upon a
wide, grassy field at the crest. Before them, the
ground dropped gently through a series of broad valleys.
Narrow streams sparkled amid orchards and
pastures. The horizon vanished into the haze, where,
Tristan knew, the sea lay about thirty miles to the
east.
But all of this detail faded into insignificance as
they perceived one stark and painful fact: Columns
of smoke rose into the sky from several places—thick
pillars of darkness, each marking a cantrev of the
Ffolk, a burning cantrev.
Gavin groaned—a strangled, inhuman sound
incongruously emerging from the smith’s barrel
chest. Tristan knew, without asking, that the nearest
of the columns marked Cantrev Myrrdale.
* * * * *
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not bother to post a watch, and their camp was not
troubled during the night.
They rose early, sharing the smith’s infectious
enthusiasm for a new day. The smith strung his donkeys
together, and the companions helped him load
the heavy crates which had been lying among the
trees.
“Iron and coal,” he explained. “The fodder of my
forge. Twice a year I journey to Cantrev Thorndyke
for supplies.”
“That’s one of the mountain cantrevs, isn’t it?”
recalled Tristan.
“Indeed—they mine the best iron in the Moonshaes
up there, apart from the dwarves, of course. And
what human could buy iron from the dwarves?” The
smith chuckled deeply at the thought of the reclusive
dwarves selling to humans.
“It’s not that I couldn’t hire me a carter to make
the trip instead,” explained the smith, as loudly as if
he spoke to a gathering of several hundred. “It’s just
that—” His voice dropped to a conspiratorial
bellow—“I like the mountains so much that I give
meself the trip as a little reward.”
“They are beautiful, these mountains,” agreed the
prince, wishing he had paid more attention to his
surroundings during their flight.
“But again,” the smith continued, looking eagerly
toward the low ridge that would be their first landmark
of the morning’s journey, “there’s nothin’ like
getting, home again afterward. And with any luck,
we’ll be there in time for lunch!”
A pleasantly warm breeze rose from the lowlands,
and the sun smiled from a cloudless sky. Light of
heart, the five of them set off down the road. The
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vied with relief, for the Bloodriders were thundering
into the great field at full gallop. The black horses
gleamed with sweat, their flanks and legs caked with
dust. The fur cloaks of the Riders were also travelstained.
Laric reined in before Grunnarch and leaped from
the saddle. The king prepared a rebuke for his henchman,
but the oaths died on his lips, as his eyes locked
with horror on the face of the approaching man.
The Bloodrider’s skin had lightened to a pasty gray
hue, and his bright red lips stood out in awful contrast
from the unnatural face. The man’s eyes were
sunk deep into his head, but seemed to stare from
their cavelike sockets with fiery intensity. Grunnarch
thought fleetingly of a skull, upon which someone
had painted garish red lips.
Laric walked passed the king without saying a
word, and Grunnarch the Red, a man not known for
reticence, could not command him to stop. In fury, the
Red King returned to his task of organizing his army,
kicking and lashing out with renewed fury at anyone
and anything that failed to hop to.
As he moved about the camp, the king saw that his
troops universally reacted to the appearance of the
Bloodriders. The rest of the army collected uneasily,
with many nervous glances at the cadaverous Riders.
The horsemen ignored the other northmen, preparing
a simple camp in an area they claimed for themselves.
Grunnarch, wishing he could ignore the Bloodrider,
sent a messenger to summon Laric to his meeting of
officers. The captain of the Bloodriders arrived
silently, joining the ring of leaders gathered around
Grunnarch. The group shifted apprehensively for a
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“Blast and damn! You are all idiots!” Grunnarch
the Red ordered his men to assemble outside the
ruined cantrev. Food, drink, and wenching seemed to
have driven most of the worthless scum to the brink
of unconsciousness. Those who did not stir readily
enough felt the thud of the Red King’s solid boot.
Stomping among the wreckage of people and
homes, he cursed with renewed vengeance as he considered
the true reason for his irritation.
Where were the damned Bloodriders?
For a week he had had no direct word from Laric,
the captain of the Riders. Rumors trickled back,
about villages scourged until they were nothing more
than black splotches on the ground, about acts of
unspeakable cruelty.
Grunnarch recalled, uneasily, his last meeting with
Laric. The man had seemed determined to go his own
way. He had barely listened to Grunnarch talk, yet
something forbidding in his simmering gaze had
stopped the king’s rebuke before it reached his lips.
Now, it seemed that Laric’s negligence was jeopardizing
the whole plan.
The Bloodriders were to have met the rest of the
army here, at Cantrev Macsheehan, three days ago.
Macsheehan was a large and wealthy cantrev, and
the army had been able to provision an entire supply
train for the march on Corwell.
As Thelgaar had predicted, the tide of refugees
flowing westward had grown to a flood. If the army
could be ready to march within another day, they
could strike through Myrloch across the refugees’
route of retreat, and massacre them.
A dull thundering finally caught Grunnarch’s
attention, and he looked down the road. His anger
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In the eyes of Laric, that excitement seemed to
shine like the coals of a hot forge.
* * * * *
Gavin abandoned the string of donkeys and lumbered
down the road toward the blazing village,
which still lay in the distance behind another low
ridge.
Tristan immediately galloped forward to join the
smith. “Wait!” he cried. “Take one of the horses—we’ll
ride with you!”
Gavin ran stolidly, as if he hadn’t heard, and Tristan
repeated the plea. Finally, his lungs heaving
from exertion, the big man stopped. The pain in the
smith’s eyes struck the prince through the heart. He
quickly dismounted and gave the smith his horse.
The big gray gelding was the largest of the mounts.
The prince remounted on an extra horse as the
others began to gallop down the road. The dogs raced
along in the ditch, while the donkeys, unled, plodded
steadily along, falling quickly to the rear.
They slowed to a canter shortly, and less than an
hour later they looked down upon a wasteland of ravaged
farms, burned buildings, and trampled fields. In
the center of the wasteland lay the smoldering
wreckage of Cantrev Myrrdale.
Not a single building remained standing upon the
site of the small community. Most of it had been
burned, but some smaller buildings had apparently
been trampled into the ground with ruthless determination.
Spurring their mounts, they neared the ruins. Now
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moment. When movement ceased, no one stood
within five feet of Laric.
“We will march with the dawn!” declared Grunnarch.
“Raag Hammerstaad will take half the army
and the supply train, and advance along the main
road toward Corwell. He will make certain that
bands of refugees cannot slip around through our
onslaught and return here.”
“We will spread the force across the entire valley!”
declared Hammerstaad. “A rabbit will not be able to
slip through our lines!”
“Good. The rest of us will strike out due west,
through a pass in that ridge.” Grunnarch pointed to a
skyline of rock some twenty miles to the west. It
looked sheer and unclimbable from their current
vantage, and a rumble of surprise arose from the
men.
“We will be met by a guide,” the Red King assured
them, hoping that Thelgaar had spoken the truth
about the treacherous druid. “He will reveal the pass
to us.
“The Bloodriders will precede this column,” he continued,
looking at Laric. The captain looked on, his
mind clearly elsewhere. “For the rest of us, speed is
the major requirement. We take only enough provisions
for five days. We march steadily, from dawn
until dusk.
“And we come out of the mountains directly in the
path of those refugees. The whole mob of them will be
pinched between the two armies!”
The thought of the massacre that would ensue
brought the blood pounding to his brain. He could see
the same excitement shining in the eyes of the
assembled warriors.
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Sickened, the prince walked numbly. He felt as if a
deep wound had been struck into his own vitals. His
stomach knotted with pain, he forced himself on.
Tristan finally found Gavin, kneeling among the
splintered ruins of a small cottage. The building had
not burned, but instead had been flattened by some
powerful force. Looking carefully at the ground, Tristan
saw many horses’ hoofprints among the shattered
boards.
Gavin did not look up from the pitifully small,
wrinkled form he held in his massive arms. The
smith moaned softly, and Tristan’s throat choked.
Tears stung his eyes as he turned away.
Daryth ran over to join him, his smooth leather
boots carrying him soundlessly through the mass of
rubble. He slowed as he approached, and Tristan
pulled him beyond Gavin’s hearing.
“Northmen!” the Calishite announced, pointing
toward the far side of the village. “They’re about a
mile from the village and they’re coming this way.”
“How many?” asked the prince, suddenly aroused.
Perhaps this village could be avenged!
“About a score,” answered Daryth.
Tristan looked at Gavin, who tenderly deposited
the body next to another tiny form on a smooth patch
of ground.
“Gavin, the enemy approaches your village. Join us
in vengeance!”
The big man stared dumbly at the ground, making
no sign to indicate he had heard. Instead, he poked
again into the rubble. They watched as he gently
cleared the wreckage from the last body—this one
full grown—crushed beneath a wall.
“Leave me,” grunted the smith, turning to look
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they passed some of the burned farms, and occasionally
saw human or animal remains lying in the fields
or along the road. From the appearance of the bodies,
it seemed that the carnage had occurred at least
twenty-four hours earlier. No living creature entered
their sight during the entire ride, except for the
cro the corpses as
the riders passed. Reining in at the edge of town,
they all dismounted. Gavin lurched forward, stumbling
down a charred and devastated main street,
while Tristan motioned the others to wait.
“What could have done this?” asked Daryth, after a
long minute of silence. Beside him, Robyn choked
and turned away from the scene.
“I don’t think this is the work of Firbolgs,” Tristan
muttered. “It’s too thorough.”
“Northmen?” Pawldo asked the question through
clenched lips.
“Something far more sinister, I fear.” The bard
spoke very seriously. “The earth itself has suffered a
desecration.”
Robyn, moaning quietly, took the reins of her
mount for support. Tristan stepped to her side and
took her arm. He shook violently.
“Let’s spread out and look around,” suggested the
prince. “Look for clues as to who did this—I’d hate to
think that the Firbolgs are numerous enough to garrison
a stronghold like that and still have enough to
ravage the countryside!”
Robyn stayed outside the village, while Tristan,
Daryth, Pawldo, and Keren spread out and moved
among the ashes of the town. Here and there, a
smoke-blackened shape that could have been a
corpse lay like so much grotesque wreckage.
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“Would you care for some pudding?” The thin but
sturdy old woman held out the wooden bowl with
almost childish eagerness. Her visitor looked up,
smacking his lips with the last of the quail, and
nodded.
Gwendolynn, druid of Dynloch Pass, got few visitors
to her remote grove, high in the Synnorian
Mountains. Thus, when Trahern of Oakvale had
arrived, she had persuaded him to join her for hot
tea, then dinner. Now, of course, it was far too late for
him to begin a journey home.
Oakvale was a distant grove, but Trahern was
known to Gwendolynn from councils over many
decades. She felt girlishly pleased at his visit.
Dynloch Pass lay so high in the mountains, with
approaches so convoluted, that few besides the
Llewyrr, dwarves, and druids knew of its existence.
Gwendolynn had tended this region for more than
half a century. Trahern must have some purpose for
his trip, but she asked nothing, being respectful of
the druid’s privacy.
She chattered happily into the evening as they sat
before the hearth, talking of the wild places that
were her mountains. Finally, rocking cozily in her
favorite chair, she nodded off before the fire. She did
not see the fiery glow that consumed her guest’s
eyes. Nor did she see him rise as she dreamed of
eagles, loftiest of her flock.
Nor did she see the steely dagger or the treacherous
thrust that, together, ended her life.
Trahern wiped the blade clean, and then lay down
to sleep. The next morning, he left the old druid’s
body to the scavengers, as he started across the
secret trailways of Dynloch Pass. His progress was
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Tristan in the eyes. Although tears streaked the
smith’s broad visage, he looked rational and firm. “I
will die here, where I should have been yesterday.
Let the enemy come to me alone.”
“Would you have them burned, with the rest of this
town?” Tristan snapped, pointing to the bodies.
“Would you kneel here and have your head struck
from your shoulders?
“Or will you stand here and fight beside companions
who would offer their lives in a battle to avenge
your village? Answer me, man!” Daryth and Gavin
both looked at the prince in shock. The prince stared
coldly into the eyes of the smith.
“Yes, of course, you are right,” mumbled Gavin.
Kneeling in the wreckage again, the smith pulled
great sheets of wood from the pile, tossing them
casually aside. Reaching the remains of a trampled
bed, he threw that away as well, finally revealing a
long, flat box.
He slipped the latch and opened the lid. Reaching
into the box, he pulled out the largest hammer
that Tristan had ever seen. Its haft was fully six
feet long, and the massive head of cold, black iron
could not have weighed less than fifty pounds. Yet
the smith twirled the massive weapon through the
air with feathery ease. Gavin looked toward the
edge of town, from where Pawldo now ran in their
direction.
“So tell me,” he said calmly. “What do you want
me to do?”
* * * * *
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With a grunt, Gavin spurred the gray gelding forward,
and thudded toward the northmen.
Tristan, Gavin, and Daryth surged from the smoke
to strike the northmen from behind. Mounted, they
held their formidable weapons high. The Sword of
Cymrych Hugh, gleaming in Tristan’s hand, smashed
an enemy’s sword as if it were an icicle, and clove the
warrior from forehead to collarbone.
Gavin’s long-hafted hammer crashed about him
vengefully, and the raiders fell back in fear from its
deadly blows.
Daryth rode quickly at the enemy, slashing with
his cutlass and leaving gaping wounds before his
nimble mare sprang away.
Tristan, Daryth, and Gavin each struck a northmen
dead, and the rest began to flee madly through
the smoke, taking the only path between dogs, riders,
and archers.
The dogs snapped and snarled in pursuit, and
Daryth and Gavin lunged after them as well. Tristan
reined in to look around for Robyn but did not see
her.
Suddenly, speaking in a strange language, her
voice cut through the air. Tristan’s heart nearly
stopped as he saw her step from swirling smoke into
the path of the fleeing northmen. She stood before
them and repeated the strange phrase. Tristan, his
heart in his throat, gasped at her power and beauty.
The raiders, as one man, screamed and threw down
their weapons. The prince could see the blades smoldering,
glowing cherry red and shedding sparks, as
they struck the ground. Howling in complete and
abject panic, the northmen scattered and disappeared
into the distance.
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slow, for every fifty paces he stopped to build a large
cairn, clearly marking the trail.
* * * * *
The twenty or so northmen marched wearily
toward the wreckage of Cantrev Myrrdale. Tristan
saw that these men had no wounded with them, nor
did their clothing show signs of recent battle. Nor did
these northmen have horses. They were certainly not
the band that had ravaged the village.
Yet they were here, deep within the borders of the
kingdom of Corwell, and they were outfitted for war.
The prince had no doubt that they were the enemy.
He saw the trudging column move wearily among
the smoldering buildings as it entered the village.
Suddenly, from the swirling smoke, what seemed a
shower of arrows struck them, as Pawldo and Keren
fired one after another with rapid precision.
The northman in the lead pitched forward, killed
instantly by an arrow in the back of his neck.
Another gasped and died with a feathered shaft
sticking through his chest. In an instant, another
pair screamed and stumbled to the ground, One of
the northmen shouted something, and the survivors
charged toward the archers. Several cursed or bellowed
animal noises as they attacked.
As they advanced, however, five snarling
moorhounds burst from the smoke on their left flank,
The dogs were led by a great hound that ripped out a
man’s throat with its first leap, an iron collar deflecting
a thrust of the dying man’s sword.
“Let’s go!” cried Tristan.
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breast. With a kick of his heels, the stallion galloped
into the night.
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Tristan rode up to the girl, looking at her in amazement,
wondering what she was. “Are you crazy? They
could have killed you—or worse!”
“I would not let them kill me,” she replied, coldly.
“And now they have no weapons to kill with!”
“Yes, I see,” answered the prince. “What . . . what
did you do to them?”
“I heated them. It’s something I have done for fun,
when no one else was around. I have never tried it on
so much metal at once.” Her brows narrowed. “I think
my anger gave me the strength.”
“Indeed,” said the bard as he joined them. “The
Balance has been badly disrupted. Evil has grown
very powerful, and power for evil must be balanced
by power for good.”
The bard studied Robyn curiously. “All that is
needed is a vessel capable of wielding that power.”
* * * * *
The goddess tried to marshall her strength, but the
Beast had grown so strong, that she feared this time
her utmost efforts would be to no avail.
It was time to intervene directly.
She called, softly, to a favorite of her creatures.High
in the Synnorian Mountains of Myrloch Vale, her call
was heard. A great white stallion perked his ears, and
stared into the night around his corral. The goddess
spoke slowly, and the horse understood.
With a terrific burst of speed, the stallion hurled
himself into the gate. Though the barrier was
Llewyrr-crafted, of supple but strong vines and
branches, it crashed apart before the heaving white
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12
AVALON
GRAY DAWN SPREAD across the sea. Kazgoroth,
through the eyes of Thelgaar Ironhand, surveyed
the fleet as it crawled toward the protected beach of a
sheltered cove. Fully a third of the longships had
gone down during the battle with the leviathan. Half
of those remaining had suffered enough damage to
make every additional mile fraught with peril.
Precious time would be lost as the crews repaired
the damaged vessels, but the only other choice was to
leave behind much of his strength.
This Kazgoroth would not do. Forcefully, the Beast
restrained a more violent display of its emotions. For
the dead northmen, thousands of whom now floated
in the Sea of Moonshae, the creature had no regard.
They, like all humans, were tools who either served
the Beast’s purpose, or attempted to thwart it. The
former were used, the latter destroyed, with equal
dispassion.
The death of the leviathan provided a great boost
to the Beast. The limitations of the body of Thelgaar
made a prison as this new power begged for release.
Kazgoroth stalked the deck of the longship, fighting
for control.
254
Finally the fleet reached the beaches, and sailors
dragged each vessel onto the sand, beyond the reach
of the highest tide.
The figure of the king strode angrily about the
beach. “Begin the repairs at once!” He watched the
sailors leap to the damage, eager to avoid Thelgaar’s
wrath.
“Remove the rams,” he added. “They have served
their purpose.”
As soon as the work began, Kazgoroth stalked into
the forest surrounding the beach. Inland, it found a
stagnant swamp, surrounded by flat marshes. Here
it removed the clothes of Thelgaar, and allowed its
skin to assume a more comfortable form.
The Beast lay upon the ground and stretched,
reveling in its freedom. Scales began to form and
soon coated the body that grew longer, and more
serpentine. Kazgoroth stretched its jaw, and felt
an almost sensual pleasure in the forked tongue
stroking hundreds of sharp teeth. It reached forward
with massive claws, snapping tree trunks for
the simple joy of destruction.
The Beast slipped into the water of the swamp,
slithering along a trough six feet deep. Still, the
crested plates of its scaly back broke the surface.
Finally, the channel flowed into a lake, and here the
Beast dove. Its whiplike tail thrust from side to side,
and its powerful hind legs kicked tirelessly.
Kazgoroth found a boat and attacked in a frenzy,
killing and eating three fishermen. The feast did not
serve to calm its unease, and, in fact, drove it to even
greater restlessness. Finally, the Beast forced itself
to lie still, lying in the cool mud of the lake bottom,
restoring its energy.
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The party started out immediately, though night
already was on them. No one felt any desire to spend
the hours of darkness in the ruins of Gavin’s village.
The smith accompanied them, silently marching
behind.
They followed the path of the horsemen who had
destroyed Myrrdale. A large body of riders had
carved a swath of ruin across the face of the kingdom.
Often, bodies that lay in their path showed
signs of disfigurement or, slow, cruel torture which
only death had ended.
The land that had fallen to these riders was devastated.
Fields of crops had been trampled to mud,
buildings smashed or burned. Any animal that had
not been taken for food had been butchered and left
for the crows.
The moon was nearly full, and they followed the
plain trail throughout the night. Near dawn they
stumbled upon another ruin.
“What town was this?” the prince asked the smith,
biting down on the pain that had been growing with
each scene of tragedy and destruction they had come
across.
“Cantrev Macsheehan,”said the smith.
After scouting the area, Robyn and Daryth came
riding back to the prince.
“Many northmen gathered here,” explained Robyn.
“The riders were joined by two, much larger, groups
on foot.”
“When they left,” Daryth added, “many of them
went southwest, toward the Corwell Road. That
group took all the wagons and carts.”
“The others moved due west,” Robyn broke in, and
the prince could hear the scarcely controlled rage in
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Its agile mind swirled with plans and ambitions,
and the Beast knew that it could not maintain its
identity as the Iron King unless it brought these
chaotic impulses under control. The northmen were a
very important part of those ambitions and so it
could not risk driving them away in panic. And this
was sure to happen, should Kazgoroth’s base urges
transform it into its true form before the eyes of the
northmen.
For three days the monster lay below the surface of
the lake. The massive heart slowed its tempo, and
the great body cooled. Finally, it emerged.With great
control, the body bent again into that of Thelgaar
Ironhand. Kazgoroth retrieved its clothes, and
returned to the fleet.
It arrived there at nightfall, to see that the work on
the longships had progressed considerably. Many
more days of labor plete
the job, however.
Resolved to retain control, the Beast went into its
tent. Brusquely, Thelgaar called for wine, which was
swiftly delivered. And Kazgoroth spoke no more that
night.
* * * * *
Gavin claimed one of the slain northmen’s swords,
and raised the weapon over the body. He then
dropped the weapon with a short, quick chop. The
head rolled from the corpse, and he tossed it to the
side where he had assembled a pile of heads. Grim
and expressionless, the smith threw the sword aside
and returned to the companions.
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gratefully for several hours, until Pawldo awakened
him for his shift. The prince climbed the great boulder
they had selected as their watchpoint, leaning
into the shadow of another huge rock so that he could
not easily be seen, and settled down to watch. Periodically,
he shifted around, stretched, and even pinched
himself to stay awake.
The full moon rose high above him, its silvery
beams pouring straight down, and lighting up the
forest like daylight. Tristan calculated quickly, realizing
that this was the first full moon since the
spring festival. No wonder it seemed so bright
tonight—this was the summer solstice, the brightest
moon of the year.
For an hour he let his gaze wander across the towering
crags of rock to either side, or to the lush blanket
of evergreens that filled the valleys, or to the
silvery ribbon of water that fed the pool beside their
camp. Remembering Gavin’s words, he looked at the
scene with a renewed appreciation. Sadly, he wondered
about Gavin and whether the smith would
ever again be able to open his eyes to the beauty of
the land.
The summer solstice—Midsummer’s Eve—traditionally
meant a festival and a celebration among his
people. The druids held the night to be the time when
the goddess’s power—the power of all life on earth—
pulsed most strongly. Tristan wondered if the Midsummer
Festival were being held this year at Caer
Corwell. It seemed like years since he had last seen
his home, although in reality it had been only weeks,
but the prince who had left home seemed to be a different,
unknown person.
He wondered how much his father knew about
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her voice. “This group included the riders that
destroyed Myrrdale. They go toward Myrloch Vale.”
“I suggest we go west, after the riders that
destroyed Myrrdale,” said Tristan. The others
nodded, and the decision stood.
They paused only long enough to eat a meal and
rest their tired mounts before again resuming the
pursuit. The weeks of hard travel had toned Tristan’s
muscles, and he felt no discomfort with the rapid
pace. His companions seemed equally unaffected.
Their provisions were nearly exhausted, but that
was a secondary importance to not losing time.
For the length of the hot summer day they pursued
the army of northmen, gaining steadily over the
large column. By nightfall, they reckoned themselves
to be less than six hours behind. Twenty-four hours
of combat and marching had worn them all to the
point of collapse by this time, and they were forced to
pause for the night.
They selected a secluded grove of evergreens surrounding
a placid pool, and sprawled wearily to the
ground. As they unpacked their horse, a panicked
deer suddenly burst into the grove, pursued by the
five hounds. Keren, who never let his bow get very
far from him, put an arrow into the unfortunate creature,
and they ate well that night.
Because of the nearness of the northern army, they
built only a small fire, its glow shielded carefully by
tall boulders. Still, it served to smoke the rest of the
meat sufficiently for them to carry it along with
them. Robyn gathered some nuts and an assortment
of huge mushrooms, so they again had enough food
for a few days.
Tristan, having drawn the middle watch, slept
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seeking his scent. When this was confirmed, the
great horse stepped forward and nuzzled the
prince’s shoulder.
The prince stood still, awed, for several moments,
and then looked more closely at the horse. It was
larger than any of the steeds in his father’s stable,
with a broad chest and long, muscular legs. The stallion
had a flowing white mane and tail.
Hesitantly, wondering if the horse would let him
mount, Tristan gathered a handful of the silky mane.
When this provoked no resistance, he leaped onto the
broad back with a swift, fluid motion. Holding his
breath for a second, he waited for the creature to rear
or buck in objection. But the stallion stood still,
breathing easily, as if waiting for a command.
Grasping the mane firmly with both hands, Tristan
nudged the great flanks with his heels, merely
brushing the smooth fur. The horse reacted like a
rocket, springing forward so quickly that the prince
nearly lost his balance.
The white horse galloped across the clearing and
through the camp. Tristan saw Robyn sit up in surprise,
and the dogs awaken, barking,With a tremendous
leap, the steed cleared the pool and vanished
into the woods. A whistling blur of trees, rocks, and
meadows passed across the prince’s vision as the
horse raced like the wind through the enclosing
woods. How the steed managed to find a path, the
prince could not imagine, but soon they rode even
more swiftly along a narrow and winding trail.
The prince rejoiced in the feeling of powerful horseflesh
below him. Each time the steed leaped an
obstacle, the prince held his breath, almost fearing
that they were about to take to the air. He wondered,
DARKWALKER ON MOONSHAE
261
what had befallen the eastern half of his kingdom.
Had messengers reached Corwell with news of the
raiders?
His attention focused on the trees before him. Solstice,
friends, home all fell forgotten from his mind as
he stared keenly at the rustling branches of two
giant spruces. He had just seen those branches
rustle, and there was no wind to cause such a movement.
Slowly, he slid from the rock to the ground, cursing
to himself as his feet made a crunching noise in the
pebbles. Why could he not move soundlessly when he
needed to, like Daryth? The prince left the sword of
Cymrych Hugh in its scabbard, worrying that its
inherent light would attract attention if he should
draw it.
As he moved forward, he felt as if every footstep
carried the snapping of dried twigs, or the rustling of
dead leaves, echoing into the night air.
Before he reached the spruces, the branches
parted, and a huge shape stepped forward, glowing
in the moonlight. At first, the prince thought the unicorn
from the Firbolgs’ fortress had returned to
them, for the satiny white shape, proud head, and
graceful bearing all suggested that mighty creature.
But a second look found no horn upon this creature,
and Tristan realized that it was a little smaller than
the unicorn.
What he saw, in fact, was simply the most magnificent
horse he had ever imagined. The stallion stood
still, breathing slowly in the warm summer air, and
looking at the prince with large, intelligent eyes. Its
clean coat was an even white in color. Pink nostrils
flared slightly as Tristan approached, curiously
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Grunnarch began the journey with the Bloodriders,
riding at the head of the column as was
his right as king. Laric followed, and behind him
came the rest of the fur-cloaked horsemen, as
they began the arduous trek up the Dynloch
Pass.
Every fifty paces, as promised, they found the
trail clearly marked with a cairn of rocks. These
guideposts were essential, for the mountains
here were so tangled and convoluted that the
trail would otherwise have been invisible. Side
valleys, box canyons, and sheer dropoffs all provided
pitfalls for the ignorant traveler. Even
with the markers, the Bloodriders found the pass
tough going.
The riders had to dismount for most of the way,
leading their steeds through narrow niches
among the rocks, or across treacherous ledges
above roaring streams. The twisting passageways
were often so narrow that the horses had to be
physically pushed through the gaps.
Grunnarch cursed with frustration as his
army’s pace slowed to a crawl. Laric, meanwhile,
remained strangely silent and aloof from his
leader’s concerns. Grunnarch thought, stealing a
glance at him, that Laric looked even more frightening
than he had upon his arrival at Cantrev
Macsheehan. The rider’s eye now glowed madly
from sockets sunk deep within his skull, and his
pasty skin had drawn more tightly across his face.
The Red King also noticed that the horses of Laric,
and all the Bloodriders, had grown gaunt and skeletal.
Their ribs showed clearly against their black
DARKWALKER ON MOONSHAE
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not yet concerned, where they were going.
Only his desperate grip on the creature’s mane
kept him on its back, for the horse turned so nimbly,
and accelerated with such power, that he came
within inches of falling to the ground many times. As
far as Tristan could tell, from the confusing scene
racing past his eyes, the horse galloped up a branching
valley near their camp—not the one taken by the
northmen’s army.
Finally the magnificent horse slowed to a trot, carrying
the prince through a spruce forest into a
flower-filled clearing, high in the narrow valley. As
the moonlight struck him, Tristan felt curiously
exposed here in the middle of the clearing.
His fears materialized then in the form of a rider
emerging from the trees before him. He whirled the
stallion about, but saw several more riders approaching
from behind him. In another moment, a ring of
proud knights, perhaps a score in number, had
emerged from the trees to surround him.
Brilliant moonlight reflected from the riders’ silvery
helms and tall, metal lances. Proud pennants
fluttered from the tips of these lances, but the
weapons were now lowered to point at the prince’s
heart. That heart almost burst as, slowly, the riders
approached, their full attention focused on him
alone.
As the last of them stepped into the moonlight,
Tristan saw that every one of these mysterious
knights rode a mount as pure white and sleekly powerful
as the one beneath him.
* * * * *
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late bivouac in the hostile environment. Still, the
moon shown brightly, and for the most part the men
were able to find shelter from the howling wind.
Nevertheless, the raiders suffered a very uncomfortable
night.
Under the harsh light of the full moon, Grunnarch
sat before a small fire and worried about his
army. Frustrated by the time lost climbing the pass,
he pondered with deep foreboding the strange sense
of sorcery that now separated him from his Bloodriders.
A shadowy figure emerged from a crack in the
rocks and approached. The brown robe muffling his
features testified that he did not belong to the army,
yet he had somehow managed to pass the pickets
without raising an alarm. Grunnarch resolved that
some guard would pay for his negligence, and his
hand came to rest upon the stubby shortsword
beneath his own robe.
The figure sat down on the other side of the fire,
and the king saw that he wore simple, woodland
garb. A deep hood cloaked his face, but two eyes
gleamed wickedly from within the hood. Suppressing
a shudder, Grunnarch looked the figure in the face.
“Who are you?”
“I am Trahern, a druid of Myrloch Vale. I am here
to show you the path.”
* * * * *
The ring of knightly riders slowly closed about the
prince, and he saw fine, shining armor protecting
each of them. Even in bulky plate mail, the riders
DARKWALKER ON MOONSHAE
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skins, and their eyes seemed clouded with some mysterious
ailment. These signs of exhaustion, however,
did not carry over into the mounts’ endurance. If
anything, the black steeds of the Bloodriders seemed
immune to fatigue, pain, and fear. They plodded
stolidly along with their masters, seeming to care
little for their surroundings or their condition.
At last, Grunnarch could stand it no longer, and
he paused by the trail as the file of Bloodriders
slowly marched past. All of the men had the same
dying look of Laric’s countenance which had so
chilled him. Although he could not quite accept the
fact, in the back of his mind Grunnarch knew that
the Bloodriders, the pride of his army, had slipped
from his control into the clutches of something far
mightier, and even more menacing. Something
that he might need to fear.
After the Bloodriders had passed, Grunnarch
stepped into the column and marched at the head of
the footsoldiers. Cursing his reluctance to confront
Laric, to accuse him of double-dealing, the Red King
marched fiercely, kicking at any stone that stood in
his path, tugging mercilessly on the trailing reins of
his unfortunate horse.
Thus, Laric was the first of the northmen to come
upon the summit of Dynloch Pass, and see the long,
descending route into Myrloch Vale. Here, the trail
opened enough for the men to mount, and the black
horses and red-robed warriors filed through the
barren and windswept rocks.
Night closed in before the bulk of the army
reached the summit. Grunnarch, new to mountain
tactics, had not ordered the column into camp early
enough. Confusion and accidents resulted from the
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framed her face, emerging haphazardly from the confining
helmet.
“How came you to be riding Avalon?” she asked in
an accusing voice.
“He came to me by my camp in the forest. I
mounted him, and we rode up the valley to this spot.
Now, why do you accost me?”
“He let you mount him, then?” she asked.
“Yes, he did.”
“What is your name, please?” asked the female
knight, visibly shaken.
“I am Tristan Kendrick, Prince of Corwell.”
The reaction this statement drew from the riders
was not what Tristan expected. All of the knights,
their movement fluid despite the heavy armor, lowered
their pennants and dismounted. The prince
noticed that the one called Carina, unlike the others,
seemed to hesitate before dismounting.
Suddenly, the knight before him drew her sword
and knelt at his feet. She held the blade before him
and spoke. “My lord, I am Brigit. I present my company,
the Sisters of Synnoria.We are warriors of the
Llewyrr, and we are at your service.”
* * * * *
Pawldo nearly drowsed while holding the last
watch before dawn. Suddenly, he jerked upright,
astonished at the figures that emerged from the
darkness.
“He’s back! And he’s still got the horse! And—!”
Pawldo’s announcement choked away in his astonishment
as a file of riders emerged from the forest
DARKWALKER ON MOONSHAE
267
seemed small atop the huge horses. They carried
themselves and their weapons with the smooth competence
of professionals.
“Who are you?” The accusing voice shot at him
from one of the riders before him. Startled, the prince
realized that the speaker was female. She had a
high, almost musical voice that seemed oddly distorted
by her rude question.
“Silence, Carina!” spoke another, in the voice of
command. This one, too, was a woman.
Tristan sat still astride the great stallion, watching
the knights close in. The Sword of Cymrych Hugh lay
in its scabbard at his waist, but it would be folly to
draw the weapon.
He considered turning the giant horse and leaping
away through the ring of riders. But one of
them, the one who had silenced Carina, moved from
the ring toward Tristan. She held her lance aloft,
unthreateningly. The prince looked at her, and with
a corner of his mind, noted the exquisite workmanship
of her smooth plate armor. She carried a slim
sword at her side, and wore a tall helm that exaggerated
the unusual narrowness of her face.
Her horse stood a full hand shorter than the stallion,
but was equally sleek and well-muscled. Breast
and faceplates of the same silvery metal as the
rider’s armor protected vital areas of the horse. The
prince saw that the saddle was deep and heavy, providing
a secure seat for the rider, as well as sturdy
flank protection for the horse.
The narrow visor in the helm was open, and he
looked at the rider’s face with interest. Exceptionally
slender and fine-boned, it was accented by a pair of
huge, luminous brown eyes. Tendrils of golden hair
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great horse was called Avalon, and had crashed
through the gate to his stall two nights earlier. The
knights had ridden in pursuit of him.
The prince, it seemed, had found the horse first. Or
perhaps, thought Tristan, recalling how the horse
had emerged from the woods at the very rock on
which he stood guard, the stallion had found him.
That is what Brigit and the others believed.
Also during the ride back to camp, Tristan had
described his friends’ experiences of the past weeks
and summarized their current mission. The sisters,
he found, knew about the raiders and were aware of
the branch of the army that was even now crossing
into Myrloch Vale.
The prince gathered Robyn, Daryth, and Keren in
the moonlit clearing and joined Brigit and her two
lieutenants for a council.
“The army we follow includes a large band of
horsemen and many thousand footmen. It seems
they now intend to violate Myrloch Vale,” the prince
began.
“We discovered this army yesterday, announced
Maura. She was the smallest of the sisters, not a
great deal larger than Pawldo. Her voice was so soft
that the others had to lean forward to hear.
“The horsemen number perhaps a hundred—
strange-looking men in fur cloaks, to a man mounted
on black horses. There is something foul and unnatural
about them. They are to be feared.”
“Someone had blazed the trail over Dynloch Pass,”
growled Carina, almost accusingly. “We discovered
the fact too late to divert them.”
“By now,” concluded Brigit, “they have probably
reached the pass and entered Myrloch Vale.”
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behind the prince and collected in the small clearing.
“—and he’s brought an army,” he finished lamely,
as Robyn and Keren gathered around. Daryth held
the dogs silent, although their hackles bristled at the
approach of the strangers. Even Gavin looked up
alertly at their approach.
The prince dismounted before his companions.
Smiling, he gestured toward the female knights and
said simply, “This is Brigit, and her lieutenants,
Carina and Maura.”
Carina still scowled suspiciously, regarding the
companions with disdain, but the other two greeted
them with apparent sincerity.
“They are knights of the Llewyrr, from Synnoria.
They will aid us against the northmen.”
“Not bad,” muttered Pawldo, impressed. Indeed,
the knights looked battle-worthy. Their armor was
both beautifully crafted and fully protective. Their
slim lances and long, narrow swords looked almost
fragile, but again master craftsmanship suggested
inner strength in the metal.
The knights took off their helmets as they started
to make camp, and Tristan for the first time got a
look at their features. To a person their hair was long
and golden, framing slender faces and huge, brown
or green eyes. The tips of pointed ears broke through
the tresses of many of the knights. They were almost
childlike and beautiful to gaze upon.
Tristan had not fully digested the events of this
midsummer’s eve. Brigit, her manner cool and polite
but every inch the resolute warrior, had explained
things on the ride back to camp. She had told him
that the company became pledged for a year’s service
to a person of royal birth who rode the stallion. The
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noria, and our people do not brook lightly the passage
of outsiders.”
The prince’s heart leaped. “You must take us that
way!” He looked Carina squarely in the eyes. She bit
her lip, fighting the temptation to retort furiously,
and her huge eyes seemed to blaze with suspicion
and distrust.
Brigit, giving an awkward glance at her sisters,
finally answered for them.
“It shall be as you wish.”
As they turned to their bedrolls, they heard a faint
cry, carried by the wind for an impossible distance.
The noise increased in volume, haunting and joyful
at the same time. Together, the sister knights and
the prince’s party listened to the song of the wolves.
* * * * *
An unearthly chorus rolled across the moors, carrying
mystical notes through the midnight air for miles.
The full moon, brilliantly spilling the radiance of the
summer solstice, illuminated the Pack. Individual
wolves sat upon every high crag and plateau of rock
for miles, joining an other wolves in raising their
voices in praise of the Mother.
Woodland creatures, and all the animals of the
wild, cringed at the sound. Dogs throughout the isle
howled an answering cry, as the call awakened some
primeval instinct within them.
The goddess heard the praises of her children, and
her pain grow more tolerable.
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“What will that allow them to do?” asked the
prince. “I am not familiar with the terrain of the
Vale.”
“They will have two choices,” explained Brigit.
“Since travel west is blocked by the highest mountains
on Gwynneth, they can turn north, in which
case all of Myrloch Vale is open to them. Or, by turning
south, they can cross a low pass and, in a few
days, occupy all of central Corwell.”
The strategic possibilities did not escape the
prince. “Should the army enter Corwell, as you suggest,
it could cut the kingdom in two. Corwell Road is
the only easy path between the eastern and western
halves of the kingdom, and they could close that
road!”
“Don’t forget the other army!” exclaimed Robyn.
“It’s moving down Corwell Road from the east—
they’ll trap thousands of refugees between them if
these riders reach Corwell Road before we do!”
“It would be a massacre such as the Ffolk have
never suffered,” said Keren, quietly.
“Tristan’s mind groped for a solution to the problem.
This small force could never hope to halt the
northern army, yet somehow the fleeing populace
must be helped to escape.
“Is there any other way into Corwell from here? A
way that doesn’t involve travel over Dynloch Pass?”
The sisters looked at each other nervously for a
moment. Glaring at Brigit, Carina shook her head,
silently arguing with her about whether to speak.
Finally, however, the captain of the sisters turned
back to the prince.
“There is such a way, shorter even than the route
through Dynloch Pass. Yet it passes through Syn-
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13
SYNNORIAN RHAPSODY
NOT ALL OF the notice wrought by the full moon
was benign, or heralded the greatness of the
goddess. In a filth-strewn cave not very many miles
from the Pack, Erian awaited the summer solstice
with a tormenting mixture of dread and longing.
After weeks of living like an animal, emaciated and
covered with grime, the man now bore little resemblance
to a human being.
Now, as the beams of the moon thrust mercilessly
against the stone walls of his cave, reflectively lighting
up the interior, Erian crawled forth. Outside,
exposed to the full illumination of the full moon, he
begged for the body he now craved. He wanted the
powerful legs and teeth, the keen nose and ears, that
were his as a wolf.As a human, there remained nothing
of himself that he wished to keep.
And so he changed, under the light of the silver
moon, for the third and last time. The wolfish body
and the wolfish senses would remain his until he
died. The change was like a blessing of comfort, laid
upon his brow, for he now sensed a purpose and a
power to his life.
His ears, keener by far than those of the man he
272
once was, heard ever so faintly the mournful lament
of the Pack. Leaping to his feet, Erian set off across
the moor at a steady, loping gait.
Soon, now, Erian would be home.
* * * * *
The approach to Synnoria followed a mazelike pattern
of connecting valleys, canyons, passes, and
forest trails. Although the trail in all places was wide
and easily passable, the routes were so cleverly camouflaged
that Tristan knew he could never retrace
their steps without a guide.
After a full day of climbing, the trail entered a box
canyon with no apparent access other than the trail
the companions followed.
“We’ll camp here tonight,” announced Brigit.
“Tomorrow morning we will enter Synnoria.”
“I see why you don’t get many outside visitors,”
Tristan remarked. “I know that I’m lost!”
Brigit looked at him. Her huge, serious eyes
seemed to be gauging him, trying to determine his
reaction to what she was about to say. With a deep
breath, she spoke.
“Tomorrow you will all have to be blindfolded.”
Tristan began to protest, while the rest of his companions
looked suspiciously at the sisters. Brigit cut
off his arguments before he could make them, however.
“Partly, you will be blindfolded for our security, and
I will not pretend otherwise.” Her voice was feathery,
but as firm as iron. “But also, this is for your own protection.
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spilled its lifegiving heat onto his skin and spread a
comforting warmth through his body after the
clammy morning ride.
Nearby, a waterfall trilled across rocks with a
musical tinkle. The sound was so delightful that he
would have halted Avalon to listen if he held his own
reins. He felt his throat choke with sorrow, and tears
sprang to his eyes, as the soul-soothing sound faded
into the distance.
Now he heard the wind rustling through leafy
branches with a pleasant sigh. The branches whispered
with a seductive tone, and birds trilled a calling
song. They crossed a bridge, hoofs clattering on
the wooden beams like the chiming of a massive bell.
The sound arose so rich and throaty that the prince
forcibly pulled back on the stallion’s mane, for he
could not bear to ride on. Someone tugged firmly
upon the reins, however, and he was carried unwillingly
forward.
Weeping unashamedly, he tore at the blindfold
frantically, but the heavy cloth was wrapped tightly
around his face. In anguish, he turned his head to
savor the last, hypnotic sounds arising from the
bridge.
Suddenly he heard, again, the musical chimes of a
waterfall. This one sounded larger than the other,
and its notes carried more force and a wider gamut of
tones. If such a thing were possible, the prince
thought, these sounds were even more beautiful than
the other.
He made up his mind. Never again would he know
happiness in the mundane world. His future lay
here, in Synnoria, whether or not the beauty of the
place would drive him mad. He swung a leg across
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“You see, the beauty of Synnoria far exceeds that of
the world you know. An outside visitor, it is said,
would be driven mad by the sights and sounds of our
little valley. One who enters Synnoria for the first
time, and sees the land in the light of day, will never
be able to leave!
“This is a risk I will not take, neither with my land,
nor with the sanity of you and your companions.
“You must agree to be blindfolded, or we will not
take you through Synnoria.” With a note of finality,
Brigit regarded the prince.
The prince found it hard to believe the woman, but
saw no alternative. “It shall be as you wish.”
The sisters arose before dawn began to lighten the
sky. Stars still twinkled brightly, although the first
traces of sunrise colored the east, as the sisters
firmly tied blindfolds across the eyes of Tristan and
his companions.
The women helped them to mount, and took the
reins of the companions’ horses. Tristan silently
cursed the imposed blindness, feeling strangely disoriented
astride Avalon’s broad back.
He could tell when they passed through a very
narrow corridor in the rock. Echoing sounds offered
clues as to the surroundings, and every once in a
while he felt a chill in the atmosphere. Once he
reached out and felt a shelf of cool, fragmented rock,
confirming his suspicions. He felt himself slide
toward the rear of his horse, and consequently
deduced that they journeyed primarily upward.
When the party finally emerged from the corridor
in the rock, a warm breeze caressed the prince’s face,
carrying fragrances that made him think of Brigit’s
warning about the beauty of the valley. The sun
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began to play a little ditty, quite profane, about an
amorous barmaid. The tune displayed none of the
mastery and craft that the prince had heard on
other occasions, but it was such a simple and
catchy melody that Tristan could not get it out of
his mind.
For the rest of the day, the bard strummed his harp
and sang the simple little song. The others joined in,
occasionally, as his voice began to crack and waver.
Yet the chords he struck from his harp never
wavered in their clarity. Tristan felt no regret when
cool walls again pressed in from either side and they
entered a region of deep shadows. He knew. That the
seduction of Synnoria now lay behind them.
Finally Brigit called a halt, and the sisters
removed the blindfolds. Once again they found themselves
in a narrow canyon, surrounded by sheer rock
walls. Canthus jumped against Tristan, licking his
face as the prince dismounted.With a squawk, Sable
settled to the limb of a scraggy tree that somehow
grew in the barren cleft. Robyn swung quickly to the
ground, then weakly leaned against her horse.
Daryth and Gavin dismounted stiffly, while Pawldo
leaped from his pony to kiss the ground. “I’ve had
enough sorcery to last me the rest of my life!” he
declared, lacking his usual vigor.
Keren remained mounted as he slung the harp
over his shoulder.With a pained look, he held up his
obviously stiff fingers. The fingertips were cracked
and bleeding.
“It’ll be a few days before I want to play my harp
again,” he admitted.
“Thank you,” said Robyn as the bard finally dismounted.
She stepped to his side and kissed him on
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Avalon’s back and started to drop to the unseen
ground below.
A jangling noise struck him in the face like a
bucket of icewater, stopping him just before he let go
of the horse’s reins. Dissonance crashed into his ears
again, and still a third time.
“No!” he cried. “I can’t hear the waterfall!”
But the jarring notes continued—the strings of a
harp, plucked without tuning or harmony. Dimly,
the prince heard other voices raised in protest, but
the chords kept coming. Painful to the ear, absent of
any musical worth, they only served to mask the
sounds of the lovely waterfall.
The prince recognized the sound, if not the tone, of
Keren’s harp. “Stop!” he ordered. “Stop that instrument!”
Futilely, he shouted at the bard, railing against
Keren until his voice grew hoarse. And all the time,
Keren played the harp loudly and constantly, so that
he and his companions could not enjoy the sounds of
the waterfall, and the trees, and all of the things that
made Synnoria so . . .
Seductive.
Suddenly the prince stopped shouting and felt
very foolish. His resentment toward the bard
quickly changed to gratitude, for he knew that
without the timely sounds of the nearby harp, he
would have leaped from the saddle, determined to
spend the rest of his life listening to the distant
harmonies in Synnoria.
The prince could still hear the waterfall in the
background, but the sound now arose only as minor
accompaniment to the music of the bard’s harp.
Keren soon ceased the tuneless strumming and
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At least his men, famished and exhausted from the
grueling passage, would be able to rest for a few
hours and eat a hot meal at this camp. The druid
Trahern had assured him that the passage back into
Corwell presented far less of an obstacle than did the
pass they had just crossed.
Thoughts of sustenance reminded him of another
cause of unease, the Bloodriders. They seemed to
suffer from the fatigue of the march as much as any
of the other men, but they showed no inclination, at
the end of the march, to eat, drink, rest, or any of the
other activities that insured recuperation. Instead
they stood or squatted in their own area of the camp,
waiting with barely concealed impatience to strike
out on the trail again.
“Perhaps,” thought the Red King grimly, “they now
survive on blood!” He avoided entering the Bloodriders’
camp, preferring to remain near his own tent.
Accompanied by Trahern, the druid, he watched his
army slowly recover its spirit.
A commotion at the edge of camp attracted his
attention. With Trahern at his side, Grunnarch hurried
toward it. A young warrior ran up to him, pointing
toward the forest.
“Firbolgs, my lord! They’re coming this way!”
Grunnarch saw a band of perhaps five dozen Firbolgs
trudging toward him. They moved listlessly, as
if they were the remnants of an army. Indeed, many
of them wore stained bandages over moist wounds.
The Red King was not prepared for the filthy appearance
of the Firbolgs, nor for their smell. The odor preceded
them by several hundred yards, carried by an
unfortunate breeze, and was offensive even by the
northmen’s uncritical standards.
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the cheek. “With out your harp, I would now be a permanent
resident of Synnoria,.”
“I agree,” said Daryth, while Pawldo nodded. Gavin
grunted, noncommittally, and turned to look back,
toward Synnoria.
“Let’s camp here,” suggested Brigit. “It’s all downhill
to Corwell. With luck, we’ll make it in two more
days.”
The captain of the sisters turned to Keren. “That,”
she said with a rare smile, “was a very impressive
performance.”
Exhausted, the prince collapsed into his bedroll,
delighted, for a change, to leave their safety to someone
else. He quickly fell into a deep sleep, and
dreamed of trees that sang a vulgar song about a
tavern wench.
* * * * *
The army camp sprawled along the shore of a formerly
clear mountain lake. The green fields along
the lake had been churned into a sea of mud by the
tread of thousands of booted feet. The waters had
turned brown and dirty.
Grunnarch looked over his camp with ill-concealed
unease. It had taken the force more than two days to
cross through Dynloch Pass, and he knew that he
had fallen behind schedule. Near the summit of the
pass, a sudden rockslide had claimed the lives of a
hundred of his men. To lose a hundred with a single
blow was a bitter pill. And finally, the army of Firbolgs
that was supposed to meet him here was
nowhere to be seen.
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they’ll be, I’m sure!”
Trahern shrugged. “We cannot know the nature of
their role in the Iron King’s plan. It is better not to
question.” The druid walked slowly back to his seat
by the fire.
Grunnarch cast an angry look after the druid. He
wondered, briefly, how Thelgaar had convinced the
man to betray his land and his goddess. He looked
back at the Firbolgs, who were claiming a great section
of the lakeshore as their own. His army was
demoralized—nervous about the presence of both the
Bloodriders and the Firbolgs. This land—Myrloch
Vale—seemed to sap their spirit. The king grimaced
as he remembered his own nightmares. Nevertheless,
Grunnarch knew that he had passed the point of
no return. His force was committed to the plan, and
he would do his best to lead it into the battle that
Thelgaar had described to him so long ago.
Grunnarch and his army slept that night on defiled
ground, haunted by bad dreams. Many struggled to
remain awake, no matter how many hours till the
dawn.
The next morning, a serpentine column of troops
snaked away from the lakeshore toward the low pass
that Trahern indicated. If they could make good
time, the druid assured Grunnarch, they would be
astride the Corwell Road by nightfall.
Above the marching army, the day started ominously.
Heavy clouds gathered along their route of
march. Even before the last troops marched out of
the camp, the rain began to fall.
* * * * *
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“This is the army?” Grunnarch muttered in disgust,
looking at Trahern. The druid, too, seemed
puzzled.
“I expected a much larger band,” he admitted.
“Though they do look formidable, those that there
are.”
Indeed, the Firbolgs, even in this condition, looked
like fierce fighters, with powerful legs and arms.
Their low, sloping brows made them look very stupid,
which was a quality Grunnarch praised in his soldiers.
But they looked decidedly useful.
The largest of the creatures gestured the others to
halt, and approached Grunnarch and Trahern. He
stopped before them, and the king realized that the
brute was not as tall as he had first seemed. He towered
perhaps a couple of feet over Grunnarch’s head,
no more.
“Groth,” grunted the creature, chucking a squat
thumb at its barrel chest. “Corwell,” he added, pointing
to the southwest.
“I am Grunnarch the Red, commander of this
force,” the king declared. The Firbolg only looked
curious, spreading his hands.
“Grunnarch,” grunted the king, pointing to himself,
and then turned to the druid for help. “Can you talk
to him?”
“I can try,” Trahern said, sounding reluctant. He
grunted something short and harsh at the Firbolg,
and the creature replied loudly, making violent gestures
in the air. Then the Firbolg turned its back and
stalked away.
“He says they had some trouble with humans,”
explained the druid. “He also says not to bother him.”
“That’s great!” Grunnarch spat. “A lot of help
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forced them lower still.
As morning began to gray the eastern sky, Genna
finished her spell. As the northmen broke their camp
and began their march as yet unaffected, the great
druid smiled patiently, for hers was not the magic
that strikes in a single, dramatic blow.
The rain began as a light sprinkle, annoying the
marchers but causing no great impediment. Soon it
was a steady shower, making footing treacherous on
the narrow trail. More and more marchers passed
over that stretch, churning it into a morass of mud.
Finally, the showers became a downpour, washing
out sections of the trail and creating a bottomless
mire of the lowlands.
When four of the Bloodriders, horses and all, collapsed
and disappeared into a frothing torrent that
had, minutes earlier, been a splashing brook, Grunnarch
could deny the signs no longer. Cursing the ill
favor that seemed to accompany his expedition, he
ordered the army to bivouac until the storm subsided.
And with this order went the realization that
he would not reach the Corwell Road that night.
* * * * *
The great wolf loped steadily across the moor,
ignoring the passage of time. The moon set, and the
sun climbed into the sky, but still the great creature
ran with steadfast purpose. Finally, Erian reached
the area where the Pack had spent the night.
From here, the trail led eastward. Sniffing eagerly,
Erian conjured clear images of hundreds of yearlings
and pups, of an old male, gamely keeping up, of a
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Genna Moonsinger, Great Druid of Gwynneth,
knew of the army violating the sacred protectorate of
Myrloch Vale. She watched, broken-hearted, as her
animals died before the merciless invaders. She
noted with revulsion that a band of Firbolgs had
joined the northmen. She felt the earth itself recoil
from the tread of the Bloodriders.
Genna had no army to send against the invaders.
In the body of a little sparrow she observed the
sprawling encampment along the lakeshore. She was
not emotional, but part of her wanted to rain a
shower of rage against the enemy.
Yet the great druid was not without recourse. In
another guise, that of the tiniest of mammals, the
shrew, she slipped into the camp at nightfall. Seeking
the tent of the leader, she listened carefully for several
hours to meaningless and offensive debate.
Finally, however, she learned what she sought: Grunnarch’s
objective.
The northmen would march south, into Corwell,
instead of continuing their sacrilegious march
through Myrloch.
The Great Druid resolved that the raiders would
be hampered every step. The rest of the night was
spent in preparations, as she raced with dawn to
work her own brand of sorcery. Steam climbed from
the surface of every body of water within the radius
of her power. Winds bent from their natural path,
seeking and collecting clouds in the sky.
All night, her powers increased the weight of water
vapor hanging above the camp, and the path, of the
northmen. Gray clouds dropped low over the mountain
valley, and the pressure of heavier clouds above
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way, then turned, intent on watching the fight.
Erian grinned with pleasure. “Now, my wolves,” he
thought, “your master has arrived.”
* * * * *
Again the companions awakened early, this time
driven to activity by the icy breath of the high mountain
air. The barren canyon provided no wood for a
fire, so they gulped a cold breakfast and mounted.
As Tristan swung into the saddle on Avalon’s broad
back, Brigit and another knight rode up alongside.
“This is Aileen,” introduced the captain. “She is
very familiar with these valleys. I suggest we send
her ahead to scout for signs of the enemy.”
Aileen, the prince saw, had masked her shining
armor with a woolen tunic of green, earthen tones.
Instead of a lance, she carried a bow, along with her
slim sword. She smiled and nodded to the prince as
he met her eyes.
“That’s a good idea. Arrange a rendezvous for this
evening, with alternate sites if we get held up.” The
prince wondered if the raiders’ army had left Myrloch
Vale yet. Perhaps, even now, the army lay across
Corwell Road.
Once again they had entered Myrloch Vale, and
this time Tristan enjoyed his surroundings. For the
rest of the day, they descended through a series of
rocky canyons and valleys, which soon gave way to
sparse groves of cedar, and then thicker forests of
spruce and aspen. The beauty of the mountains, and
the pristine purity of the wilderness, made the day
pass swiftly for Tristan, who found himself enjoying
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bitch in heat. And one scent, finally, his supernatural
nose identified. The largest male seemed to lead the
Pack, but Erian knew himself to be larger, and
stronger.
He started along the trail, still loping. He intended
to conserve his strength for the encounter, and knew
that the great population of wolves would travel far
more slowly than he would alone. And indeed, the
spoor grew steadily fresher as he followed the trail.
The wolves had taken a winding path, leading
through shallow mountain valleys and over low
ridges. Sometimes they passed through forest and
thicket, while other times the Pack broke onto the
open moor.
Finally Erian reached the top of a low hill and saw
the Pack below him. Thousands of wolves nearly
filled a small valley, where the Pack was in the
process of crossing a shallow river. Many wolves,
having already made the swim, shook themselves or
rested on the far side. Others bobbed steadily across,
swimming resolutely against a mild current.
His bloodshot eyes glittered with hate as Erian
searched among the wolves, seeking the big male.
Finally, he found him, still lolling comfortably on the
near bank.
Raising his face toward the sun, Erian howled, a
long wail that ululated through the valley, and pulled
the attention of every wolf to the great beast standing
atop the hill. Erian howled again, masterful and
evil, as the wolves cringed.
The big male, he noticed, bristled aggressively and
began to move forward, but even his bearing bespoke
fear. Erian loped down the hill, arrowing straight for
the big male. The other wolves scampered out of his
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the general direction of the northmen’s army.
“How did they that?” asked the prince, confused.
“They made the dwarves mad!” answered another
gruff voice, this time male, from the darkness. Suddenly
Tristan noticed a number of figures, all
roughly similar to Finellen in size and shape,
emerge from the forest and join them in the clearing.
Perhaps fifty or sixty stout figures—all with
bushy beards, darkened metal armor, and shorthafted
battleaxes—soon stood around the fringes of
the camp. The Sisters of Synnoria, the prince saw,
regarded the newcomers suspiciously.
“I see you’re not too particular about the company
you keep,” grunted Finellen to Tristan, nodding
across the fire at Brigit.
“Dwarven scum!” The fiery Carina leapt to her feet,
and her slim sword snaked from its sheath to dart
toward Finellen’s beard.
But its strike rebounded from a broad axehead
that somehow had appeared in Finellen’s gnarled
hands. For a second the two stood, frozen, sending
currents of tension through the gathering, Then Tristan
leaped to his feet.
“Stop it!” he cried, stepping between the two
women. “Our homeland is in jeopardy. We cannot
afford to fight among ourselves—our enemy is far
stronger than we to begin with! Do you understand?”
Carina glared at the dwarf, and Finellen sneered
at the Llewyrr warrior. Slowly, the two relaxed and
backed away from each other, continuing to glare
until they had seated themselves.
“We welcome your help,” said Tristan to Finellen
and the rest of the dwarves. “Why don’t you establish
a camp, right over there?” He indicated a smooth,
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the land in his kingdom for the first time.
By late afternoon, they left the higher elevation
permanently behind. Their trail followed a meandering
river through many flat, flower-filled meadows.
“This is the place Aileen described,” cried Brigit,
pointing to a jagged finger of rock jutting from a
small clearing. “She’ll meet us here at sunset.”
They broke to form a small camp there. Shortly
after dark, the green-clad scout slipped into camp.
“There’s no sign of them in front of us,” she
reported. “They must be farther north. It’s strange—
I saw an awful thunderstorm up there. It just hung
over one place for the whole day. If they got caught in
that, they’ll be moving very slowly tomorrow!”
“Excellent!” said Tristan. “With a good day tomorrow
we should beat the northmen to Corwell Road.
We can at least warn the refugees!”
“Yes,” agreed Robyn. “But then how do we stop the
northmen?”
Grimly, the prince acknowledged that he, as yet,
had no plan. And none of his companions had any
ready solutions either.
For a moment they lapsed into silence, glumly realizing
the depth of the problem. Suddenly, a bush rustled
across the camp, and they saw a faint
movement.
“I mightta known I’d find you here!” The gruff
voice, bursting from the darkness, brought the group
to its feet. Canthus, with a growl, leaped from the
fireside to face an approaching figure.
“Finellen!” cried Robyn, as the others gaped at the
approaching dwarf. “What are you doing here?”
“Those dolts did you a big favor when they
invaded Myrloch Vale,” Finellen replied, pointing in
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strength of steel, and before the male could break
away, his neck was clasped by those drooling jaws.
Mercilessly, those mighty jaws tightened their grip.
The big male kicked weakly, and there was a sharp
snap.
Erian flung the body aside with casual strength.
His red eyes did not blink as he slowly circled,
making sure that his gaze passed over each of the
thousands of animals that returned his look. He
compelled each of them to accept his mastery, and
they did so without question.
Erian, Master of the Pack, could now begin to fulfill
his destiny.
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grassy expanse, well removed from the sisters.
Finellen hawked and spat noisily into the fire. “By
the way, them Firbolgs we got mixed up with, they
joined up with the humans. Quite an ugly lot of ’em
there are.”
Digesting this unpleasant bit of news, Tristan
asked, “Are your friends as good at killing Firbolgs as
you are?”
Finellen’s eyes sparkled with pleasure, but she
gruffly cleared her throat and spat again. “Well, we
kind of like to make a hobby of it.”
* * * * *
The Pack watched the monster racing down the
hill. Fear convulsed the wolves, but something more
powerful prevented them from fleeing. The big male,
grizzled and scarred from countless battles, moved
forward to meet the threat.
He had led the Pack for many centuries, as had his
sire before him. Of a bloodline born from the goddess
herself, the male had always risen to meet any
challenger. Now, he sensed, his reign had come to an
end Compelled by every instinct in him to fight, the
wolf raced forward to meet the attacker. He leaped,
but his jaws snapped on air as the great beast
sprang from his path with astonishing quickness.
Before he sprang clear, those awful jaws slashed
against his foreleg, and the male felt pain lance from
his leg to his heart. Knowing it was his last act, the
wolf hurled himself at the enemy and fastened his
powerful teeth in its stinking, shaggy flank.
But the enemy’s flesh resisted the teeth with the
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14
CORWELL ROAD
FINALLY KAZGOROTH JUDGED the fleet seaworthy
enough to meet its fate at Corwell. Sails had been
sewn, hulls patched, and the rams removed. Precious
time had been lost, but the Beast hoped to reach Corwell
within a few days. The delay need not prove
fatal to the grand scheme.
The northmen left a dozen ships, or parts of them,
behind as they sailed. These hulks, too badly damaged
to repair, had been picked over for materials to
repair the other ships and then abandoned to become
driftwood.
The morning tide rushed away, pulling the throng
of longships from the cove into the open sea. Scarcely
a breath of wind arose, so Thelgaar ordered the men
to the oars. Propelled by powerful strokes, the fleet
resumed the journey to Corwell.
For a time, Kazgoroth wondered about the other
army, Grunnarch’s command. The plan had been
sound, if only that blustering old fool could execute
it. Kazgoroth remembered, with hot pleasure,
the corruption he had laid upon the Bloodriders.
If the fiendish cavalry could find a way to strike
the huge mass of humanity that must be fleeing
290
the invasion, there was no telling how much their
power would soar!
* * * * *
“My prince! Wait!” A musical voice called for the
prince’s attention. Turning, he looked back upon
the column. Daryth, Pawldo, Keren, and Gavin rode
abreast behind him. After them, in a double
column, rode the Sisters of Synnoria, except for
Aileen and another of the knights, who were scouting
up the valley. Finally, also in pairs, marched
sixty axe-wielding dwarves. Their short legs
pumped steadily as they kept pace with the rest of
the party.
The prince saw that Aileen, coming rapidly up on
the rear of the column, galloped swiftly, gliding like a
ghost along the side of the trail.
“We’ve done it!” she cried, her light voice carrying
the length of the column. “They’re only now coming
out of the ’Vale.”
A spontaneous cheer arose from the sister knights
and the dwarves. Tristan himself raised his voice in a
yell of triumph.
“I can’t believe it!” exclaimed Daryth, with a grin.
“We’ll beat them to Corwell Road for certain!”
agreed the prince. “But how do we stop them? I still
don’t see a way that we can keep them from seizing
the road and trapping the refugees.”
“What would Arlen have done?” asked Robyn quietly
as she rode up behind them.
The prince suddenly recalled his teacher’s advice
with a clarity that amazed him. “He always said to
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started to speak. “We’ve got to try and keep the
raiders from reaching the road. The longer we can
delay them, the more of our people will have a
chance to escape the trap.”
He looked at each of his companions. “I’ve been
thinking of a plan. The best place to try and hold
them is here—if we move any closer to the road, we’ll
lose all benefit of terrain.
“I’m going to take Gavin and Daryth and ride to
the road. I’ll try to enlist as many people as I can
to aid us. If I can gather enough, we might have a
chance at stopping the raiders in battle.”
They all considered this, silently, for a moment.
The prospect of meeting the veteran raiders in battle
with a hastily recruited mob of refugees did not seem
like a sound battle plan to any of them, but they were
willing to listen to this new, young “general” who
spoke with such confidence.
“Finellen, can you deploy your company across the
crest of this hill?” Tristan went on.
The dwarf eyed the low hilltop and the surrounding
terrain. She seemed to approve of his choice, and
grunted her assent.
“Brigit, I need you and the sisters to harass them
all the way down this valley. See if you can make
them think they’re under attack, and force them to
deploy for battle. The more time you can buy, the less
time we’ll have to stand them off when they get
here.”
The captain looked at him quietly, no emotion visible
in her huge brown eyes. She thought for a
moment, and nodded. “I understand.”
He looked at Robyn. “Remember that trick with the
tree?” The lass nodded, puzzled. “While the sisters
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study the ground—to choose your fight carefully.
Good terrain was worth an extra army!”
But now that he and his tiny force had succeeded
in seizing this vantage, how could they hold it
against the thousands of northmen?
Tristan considered the terrain of the broad river
valley that opened into rolling farmland. If he took
his force any farther, the prince realized, the raiders
could easily out maneuver him among the open farmlands.
Calling the column to a halt, Tristan studied their
current position. The northmen would have to march
down this valley, and perhaps, with a little assistance,
this small force might be able to bottle them
up in the valley long enough for most of the refugees
to escape westward.
The prince stood upon a low hill. Several hundred
yards away, the river flowed past, too deep to cross
easily. The far side of the river, and the land beyond
this hill, were cloaked with tangled undergrowth.
The only good terrain for such an army, Tristan realized,
was a flat field, about two hundred yards wide,
stretching between the river and the hill.
He looked again at the tiny specks inching along
the Corwell Road and finalized his plan. If several
elements of his force could work smoothly together,
they just might have a chance.
Brigit dismounted beside him and removed her
helm. Her red-gold hair spilled about her shoulders
in a huge cascade. The tops of her small, pointed ears
poked through the tresses. Finellen, too, clumped up
to them, seeming still fresh even after the dwarves’
long and rapid march.
The prince nodded at the distant road as he
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Grunnarch sat morosely beneath a hastily erected
canvas tarp. He watched the water flow around his
shelter, small rivulets in the dirt that soon merged,
and merged again, to create torrents and flooding.
The Red King longed for the feel of a rolling deck
beneath his feet, for the kiss of the salty sea air.
Instead, he could look forward only to many more
days of this exhaustive campaign.
The rain finally ceased at sunset, but Grunnarch’s
army was then compelled to spend the night where it
had halted. Heavy, lowhanging clouds blocked out
any hint of light from moon or stars, and to attempt
to march in the dark would have been sheer folly.
Thus, it was not until the day after the storm that
Grunnarch’s army finally managed to resume its
pace.
But as they embarked on the sodden and muddy
trail, a swarm of biting and buzzing insects erupted
from the woods, stinging the northmen like a
scourge. The army scattered to avoid the plague, but
not before many a soldier had been stung to death.
As Grunnarch tried to assemble the force, vines
and creepers that bristled with thorns sprouted
from the ground between his men. They laboriously
hacked through the imprisoning vines, but
their progress was further hindered. And they
began to whisper darkly of magic, and their step
slowed further.
As the king ordered the army to move again, a wall
of hot fire sprang from the ground in its midst.
Dozens of men died from the searing heat of the
flames, and the rest broke in panic to race headlong
down the trail.
All along the trail, that day, strange disasters
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ride up the valley, I’d like you and some of the
dwarves to do whatever you can to those woods, and
the field, to make it difficult for an army to pass.
“And,” he added, “be sure and let Brigit in on your
plans. I suspect the sisters might be in kind of a
hurry when they get down here, and we’d hate to
delay them.”
The prince pointed now to a shallow ditch he had
noticed. Its purpose, apparently, was to carry rainwater
from the hill to the river. Thus, it neatly
bisected the field where Tristan planned to make
his defense.
“If I can recruit some troops, I’ll station them
along that ditch. They’ll be anchored by the dwarves
here on the right and by the river on the left.”
“What if you don’t get any volunteers?” asked
Robyn, deeply concerned.
“Then we will go it alone,” answered Tristan, with
more fervor than confidence.
“Here,” Robyn said, with a serious look. She
removed a scarf she had worn around her neck.
Emblazoned upon it, the prince saw, was the Lone
Wolf crest of his family. She tied the scarf to the tip of
a lance and handed the weapon to him. The scarf
fluttered bravely from the tip, billowing out in the
faint breeze.
“If you’re going to try and raise an army,” Robyn
explained, “you might as well try and look like a
prince!” He carried the memory of her departing
smile all the way to the road.
* * * * *
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pass, these curiously altered warriors that he had
once known. He could see that they staggered with
fatigue. Riders and mounts both looked haggard
and emaciated. Though the troop had been given
plenty of food, Grunnarch realized with a shudder
that the Bloodriders required a different kind of
sustenance.
The army on foot, slogging through the mud in the
wake of the Bloodriders, covered ground steadily, yet
the men seemed fearful and nervous as they looked
at the deadly Riders ahead of them, or at the band of
Firbolgs behind. No longer did Grunnarch’s army
have any heart to complain.
And finally, the Firbolgs plodded past. They
seemed to pay no attention to the sucking mud that
reached halfway up their massive calves, nor did
they acknowledge the presence of the Red King as
they slogged by.
More worried than ever, Grunnarch fell in with
Trahern at the rear of the long column. He fervently
prayed for the weather to remain kind during this
day. If it did, he felt quite confident that they would
reach, and block, the Corwell Road before it was too
late.
Suddenly, an urgent cry brought him back to reality.
Picked up and passed down the line by the agitated
troops, the message was unmistakable.
“We’re under attack!”
* * * * *
The Prince of Corwell, seated astride the great
white stallion Avalon, blocked the Corwell Road with
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befell his men. A group, walking across a slab of solid
bedrock, suddenly found themselves sinking in a bog
of mud. Before a man could escape, the sucking mire
pulled the little band under. Grunnarch watched,
sickened, as the dying men’s hands reached above
the mire, twitching and grasping before they finally
grew still.
“It is the druids of Myrloch Vale,” explained Trahern,
paying little attention to the calamities suffered
by the northmen.
“How can we stop them? Where are they?” growled
the Red King. He hated this unseen enemy more
than any normal foe, no matter how fierce.
“They could be anywhere,” shrugged the traitor.
“Perhaps there is only one—the great druid could
muster such power by herself!” Trahern looked
around. “She could be in the guise of the tiniest
mouse or insect along our trail. There is no way to
tell.”
“We must stop these attacks! How, man? Tell me!”
Again, the druid shrugged. “Simple. We have to
leave Myrloch Vale.”
Cursing the useless advice, the Red King turned
back to his army. The attacks seemed to lessen and
the panic gradually gave way to fatigue among the
raiders. They trudged listlessly until at last they
emerged from the wilderness empire of Myrloch Vale.
Ahead of them, once again, lay the kingdom of Corwell.
Grunnarch allowed his hopes to rise slightly. The
skies, by the end of the day, had cleared.
Slowly the winding column moved south.
Through the mud and mire of the ravaged trail, the
Bloodriders led the way. Grunnarch watched them
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opportunity to any who would strike back at the
invaders who have sullied our land and killed our
loved ones!” The prince was encouraged to see many
listeners straining to hear.
“The enemy comes soon, from there!” He pointed to
the low hill, six miles away. “I will meet him there,
with a company of knights, and others of seasoned
foot!
“Now, I seek any man—or woman,” he added,
thinking quickly of Brigit and Finellen, “who will
stand with us against the northmen.”
He paused to give the people a chance to confer
hastily among themselves. He saw many looks of
enthusiasm, but more of fear and shame. The crowd
had grown enormously, and dozens more hurried
down Corwell Road from the east.
“The army of the northmen stands poised!” cried
Tristan, raising the pennant of the wolf. “We must
hold them here, until those of us who cannot fight
have escaped safely to the west. If you can hold a
weapon, join me now! Give those who are weaker a
chance to live!”
Lightly, he tapped Avalon’s flanks with his knees.
The stallion sprang from the roadway into the field,
where the prince reined him in and turned to face
the collected masses.
“All of you who will join me, form up here!” He drew
the Sword of Cymrych Hugh, and slashed an imaginary
line along the ground.
And the Ffolk ran to their prince.
* * * * *
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his presence. The long lance, with the Great Bear
pennant flickering proudly from its tip, stood next to
him. About fifty of the Ffolk, all refugees from the
eastern cantrevs, stood about him in the road, or
alongside it. More refugees joined them steadily, as
those coming down the road hurried to see what the
gathering heralded.
“Citizens of Corwell,” Tristan called again, for the
benefit of the new arrivals. “Hear me, in the name of
our king!” He hoisted the banner high, as the Ffolk
watched him impassively.
Immediately in front of him, two ragged little girls,
wearing the tattered remains of filthy dresses, held
hands and looked up at him with open, trusting
smiles. Immediately behind them, a young woman
hovered, trying bravely to restrain her tears.
A number of Ffolk had an animal or two—a
prized goat, or pair of chickens—tightly leashed
and jealously guarded. Some had managed to
carry a few possessions, such as tools, pots, or,
rarely, a weapon.
Some of them had a numbness in their eyes that
told of unspeakable loss. Tristan knew, for this was
the look he saw in eyes of Gavin the smith. Others of
the Ffolk met his gaze with a stare of determination
and courage. Others showed anger, as if he, their
prince, were responsible for the terrible events that
had befallen them.
As he started to speak, he saw again the searching
stares of those who were not abjectly defeated—
those who were still willing to stand up to the
invaders. All they needed was a spark, and the prince
know that his words must provide that spark.
“I ask you all of able body for help. I also offer an
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Aileen rode lightly in the saddle, letting the supple
mare select the swiftest path through the cloaking
pines. Like a white ghost, Osprey carried her mistress
past the enemy army, sliding easily through the
shadows and tangled places so that they avoided discovery.
She held her bow ready across her lap, but knew
that her primary mission was intelligence, not
attack. Still, she had not been able to pass up this
easy shot into the middle of the column. The ensuing
chaos made the risk well worthwhile . . . and left her
chuckling.
Suddenly black death exploded from a thicket, and
Aileen barely ducked the savage thrust of a Rider.
The attack came from so close that even Osprey’s
lightning reactions could not anticipate it. As the
attacker swung, Aileen got a look at the skull-mask
and screamed aloud in horror.
The skull was his face! The Bloodriders no longer
needed masks to create their horrible aspect. Aileen
imagined she felt the sheer, reeking evil of the creature’s
breath against her face. Whether it was her
imagination or not, the young warrior could do nothing
but clutch her reins in terror.
Osprey’s instincts were all that carried her mistress
from danger. The mare leaped from the high bank into
the stream bed and splashed into the opposite bank.
Flying as only a Synnorian steed can fly, Osprey
streaked down the valley, toward the company.
Several more of the black Riders tried to pursue
them, but Osprey easily outdistanced the sinister
horsemen. Finally, Aileen broke into a clearing and
found Brigit and a dozen of the sisters. Gasping, she
quickly told her story.
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Grunnarch finally reached the scene of the attack
that had thrown his entire column into disorganization.
There, he found one man dead of a single arrow
wound. The Red King could see no sign of attackers,
nor reason for disrupting the army.
“Fools! Imbeciles! A single archer has thrown you
into panic! Now, move!” The raiders automatically
resumed the march. Angrily, Grunnarch rode beside
the column until he reached Laric, who was at his
customary position at the head.
“Send some outriders into the woods! We can’t have
woodsmen taking shots at us every league of the
march!”
Laric regarded him passively for several seconds,
and the king saw with numbing horror that the
Bloodrider’s eyes had lost all semblance of humanity.
Dull and cold, they seemed to be deep, and opaque, at
the same time. They were no livelier than the empty
sockets of a deathshead.
Desperately, Grunnarch struggled for an idea to
bend Laric to his will. The gaunt, weakened appearance
of his lieutenant suddenly inspired him.
“You must kill!” He spoke the words slowly, clearly.
“There, in the woods—you must ride there, and kill
those you find!”
The hot flare in Laric’s eyes was the most frightening
thing that Grunnarch the Red had ever seen. Yet
the Bloodriders climbed into their saddles. Lurching
forward, the horsemen spread across the valley, seeking
something, anything, to kill.
* * * * *
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hill—a local farmer had called it Freeman’s Down.
From here. He could see the entire length of his line.
The view also carried up a shallow slope about five
hundred paces, toward the forest from which the
raiders would emerge.
The d, resting and
talking quietly. They projected an aura of routine,
and the prince envied their calm demeanor. From the
base of the hill to the river, lined up along the ditch,
four hundred men and women of the Eastern
Cantrevs stood, carrying an assortment of weapons
that included pikes, spears, pitchforks, axes, and
sharpened stakes.
Every twenty paces, for the length of this line, the
prince had appointed a cantrev lord, or respected
elder, or veteran soldier, with instructions to steady
and lead the others.
Some distance behind this line, Gavin stood with
another group of similarly armed Ffolk, the reserve.
Many of Arlen’s lessons had drilled home the importance
of a reserve, and the prince had determined
with the creation of his plan that one of every three
volunteers would form such a unit.
On the far side of the hill rested another group of
Ffolk that Tristan had been happy to recruit. About
two score in number—mostly woodsmen and
hunters—each of them carried a longbow and several
dozen arrows. The prince kept his archers out of
sight for the time being, the desirability of surprise
being another of Arlen’s oft-repeated tactical lessons.
A file of white shapes emerged from the trees, and
Tristan then heard the sound of dwarven axes biting
into timber. The sound had been a common one all
afternoon, as Robyn and the dwarves had worked to
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* * * * *
Laric led all of the Bloodriders, pursuing the
morsel of life with tightly focused energy. He wanted,
in fact needed, to kill. The white mare and its tiny
but vibrantly strong rider would yield considerable
sustenance.
Although several of the Bloodriders stayed close to
Laric, most of the rest fell away with distance. Fueled
by his lust for blood alone, Laric was the only one,
finally, who managed to keep the white ghost in sight.
Finally, the Bloodrider emerged from the woods
and halted. Even the bloodlust pounding in his skull
could not compel him to suicide, and further pursuit
would be such.
The white ghost had joined a band of similar
mounts. They regarded him cautiously as he studied
them, until finally Laric turned back to the forest. As
he stepped into the shadow of the trees, he turned
and studied the group of knights. His burning gaze
sought, and found, his original quarry—the knight
dressed for scouting.
He recalled the feeling of the quarry when his blow
had almost struck home. Warm and succulent—he
wanted that one.
And he would get her.
* * * * *
Tristan felt a knot of worry grow in his stomach,
and turn to pace nervously. He stood atop the low
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them than any willingness to strike ahead.
“Your Highness!” Another messenger ran up,
clumping heavily in his leather boots, “We have
broken through the woods, There is a line of Ffolk—
peasants, I think—that would block our way!” The
messenger seemed more surprised than alarmed.
Word spread quickly through the army of the
northmen, and morale improved noticeably. The king
heard joking and cursing again. Raiders strained to
get a look forward through the tangled forest.
Finally, the axemen opened several passages into the
clearing for the raiders.
Grunnarch strode forward, glancing at the sun. It
was low in the western sky, offering perhaps two
hours of fighting time. Then he looked across the
field. In the distance he could see the thin ribbon of
Corwell Road. Between him and it stood a rank of
peasant rabble.
It was time to set the plan in motion.
* * * * *
Like a growing tumor, the Darkwell burned the goddess.
Each outrage seemed to inflame the thing,
adding weight and venom to its poison. The cruel
theft of the Pack cut deeply after the loss of the
leviathan.
Kamerynn the unicorn, now the only child remaining,
heard the summons as he restlessly patrolled the
wild places of Myrloch Vale. He sensed that the mission
was a hopeless one, and he felt the depths of the
Mother’s sorrow. Nevertheless, he obeyed.
Galloping once again with a clear goal in mind, the
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make the forest a difficult passage for the army of
raiders. Two final crashes completed the task, and
Robyn and several dwarves followed the sisters from
the woods.
* * * * *
The tangled maze of felled trees created a nearly
impassable obstacle for Grunnarch’s force. The
northmen had to chop and hack their way through
the forest like a band of woodsmen—ignominious
work indeed for proud seafarers. Drawn and dispirited,
the army’s pace slowed to a crawl. Ranks of men
in the forefront took ten-minute shifts with axes,
striking at the broad trunks until they collapsed
with exhaustion.
“This is the work of a druid,” Trahern remarked,
observing the tightly woven branches that blocked
their path.
“A druid, eh? Well, that one’ll die like all the rest,”
observed Grunnarch.
“Perhaps,” commented the druid, turning his dull
eyes to look about the forest. “The work is crude,
amateurish. Still, there is a ‘strength’ here that disturbs
me.”
“Druids give me no cause for alarm,” grunted the
king, “At least they are human enemies, and can be
slain!”
The axemen maintained their chopping rhythm.
The Red King sensed the toll that Myrloch Vale had
taken on his army. Now, with the vale behind them,
the men displayed a palpable eagerness to press on.
Yet they did so more out of fear for what lay behind
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15
FREEMAN’S DOWN
THE ARMY OF evil seeped from the woods, gathering
just beyond the shelter of the trees. The raiders
overbalanced the little force standing before them by
at least three to one. The broad field between them,
covered in a sea of colorful blossoms, lay open to bear
the attack.
Tristan noticed the vibrant colors in the petals of
the wildflowers, and he smelled the pollen-laden air
wafting past his nostrils on a gentle breeze. The
scent was one of peace, not war.
Then the wind died away, and he heard flies
buzzing in the suddenly heavy air. He looked across
the field, and watched as more northmen emerged
from the woods. For several minutes the only sound
was the droning of the plump insects. Several hundred
yards away, he could see the northmen gathering
for a charge, but they made no sound.
Then the host of northmen raised a great cry,
thrumming a deep chorus against the walls of the
valley. Voices thundered and pounded against the
Ffolk, as thousands of voices roared their primitive
challenge.
But, from the line of the Ffolk, clashing notes sang
307
unicorn turned back toward the fens of the Firbolgs.
The smoldering coal fire still marked the Firbolg
building, sending aloft a permanent smudge over
Myrloch Vale.
The goddess thought again of the Pack, but she
could not speak to them. The power of the Beast held
them firmly in its grip.
She knew that the true might of the Pack had never
been truly revealed. It, of all the children, would perhaps
prove to be the mightiest. In the service of the
Balance, the Pack might provide the strength needed
to hold the cause.
But if the Pack were allowed to serve an evil end,
the goddess knew that the cause of the Balance was
lost.
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side of the ditch, the Ffolk met them with a line of
stabbing and slashing weapons.
A tall farmer thrust with a pitchfork against the
broad axe of a stumbling northman. The raider
nonetheless lifted his weapon to deflect the blow, and
the clash of metal rang out across the battlefield. In
seconds, the noise melded with thousands of similar
sounds. Crashing and clanging, the armies met in a
fight to the death.
The Ffolk fought like veterans. A young farmwife
cracked a stout staff across the face of a leering
northmen. He fell, and she reached down to claim his
sword. Daryth and Pawldo, together, stabbed the
raiders crawling from the ditch before them, until a
pile of bodies collected.
The Ffolk had been given cause to fight in the
last weeks. They all harbored burning hatred for
the northmen after the outrages of the Eastern
Cantrevs. Spears, forks, and stakes all thrust the
slipping raiders back into the ditch. Many of the
Ffolk fell to fatal thrusts from the attackers, but
the line reformed quickly under the commands of
the lords and veterans.
And then the farmwife fell, dropping her new
sword into the mud of the ditch. The man behind her
died, gurgling over the shaft of a spear in his chest,
and suddenly the front line broke. A dozen raiders
burst through, turning to strike the Ffolk from the
side in an effort to expand the breach. Desperately,
the prince spurred Avalon toward the scene.
But Robyn was already there. The woman had
been pacing behind the line, standing firm for just
such an eventuality. Now she stepped forward, raised
both hands, and shouted those arcane words the
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an answering challenge. The peasant warriors
cheered lustily, knowing for a fact that a greater bard
stood with them, and that the dwarves and Sisters of
Synnoria were joined in rare common purpose. The
notes smote, impossibly loud, upon the ears of all
who were present.
The northmen charged in a great, howling mass.
Their bearded faces grimaced as the berserk rage
took them.
The prince signaled the longbowmen. The archers
sprang to the crest of the apparently empty hill, and
sent showers of arrows onto the center of the charging
line. Dozens of the missiles found a mark of flesh,
but the losses seemed to make no difference to the
horde. Leaving the fallen where they lay, the howling
northmen rushed forward.
Avalon carried the prince along behind the two
ranks of Ffolk lined up at the central ditch. Canthus
raced at his side, and Tristan still carried the lance
with the Lone Wolf pennant aloft. His hastily
recruited troops seemed determined, their leaders
working to steady and calm them as the northmen
drew closer.
Rays of sunlight slanted sharply across the field,
highlighting the flowers for a last glimpse of beauty,
before the blossoms disappeared under the trampling
charge. Now, the weapons gleamed in the late
afternoon sunlight.
The first raiders to reach the ditch slipped and fell
in surprise. Ignorant of the obstacle, their companions
to the rear swept onward, and the entire
momentum of the charge vanished in the steep slope
and muddy bottom of the trap. As the fallen attackers
regained their balance and struggled out the far
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first to strike a blow in the battle stepped into the
charging mass and lay about with his pitchfork. He
soon went down beneath the press of attackers, but
the sacrifice had bought a few precious seconds.
Tristan and Robyn raced for the breach, even as
the hole in the line grew broader. The Ffolk began
to stream away from either side, panicked by the
sudden breakthrough. The prince turned to see
Gavin watching him intently, waiting for some
sign.
The Lone Wolf banner dipped toward the breach,
and with a throaty yell, Gavin led the reserve forward.
Two hundred Ffolk rushed toward the rupture.
An even greater number of northmen plunged
through the hole, sensing victory.
* * * * *
Grunnarch had remained behind when the bulk
of his army charged across the field, although such
a rear-echelon role raised a bitter taste in his
throat. Still, he could not trust the Firbolgs or the
Bloodriders to choose an appropriate moment to
attack. Even with his presence, he knew that he
could not hold the two bloodthirsty bands out of the
fight for long.
Yet he knew that if the infantry could blast a hole
through the feeble line, a timely charge by the riders
around the open flank of the Ffolk would send the
entire force into a chaotic rout.
Then the killing could truly begin.
Even before such an opportunity arose, however,
Laric took matters into his own hands.As Grunnarch
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prince had heard only once before. The northmen
screamed and dropped weapons suddenly grown red
hot, and then fled back to their own as they saw the
approach of a thundering white stallion and a rider
bearing a Lone Wolf pennant.
“Well done,” the prince congratulated Robyn.
“My prince,”she acknowledged, smiling, oddly
peaceful in the midst of the chaotic setting.
“Look,” called Tristan, as the line of the Ffolk
stretched and cracked in another place. Robyn
leaped to Avalon’s back and they galloped toward the
threat. By the time they reached it, however, a young
cantrev lord had shifted the line to fill the gap and
drive the attackers back to the ditch.
They came upon Keren, who paced behind the line.
His harp and songs of valor were of more value than
his sword.
“Even so,’ said the bard grimly, “more than once
I’ve had to sling my harp in favor of my blade. The
line holds, but barely, my prince.”
“Perhaps ‘barely’ will be enough!”
The bard grinned and started another song. As
always, the music and words rang out clearly, impossibly
loud, above the din. The prince saw Daryth and
Pawldo, standing at the ditch, drive several stumbling
raiders back into the mud and blood at the
bottom.
Avalon’s flanks heaved with excitement, and the
great stallion tossed his head proudly, as Tristan
scanned the field for developments.
Suddenly the line of Ffolk vanished in the center,
as several northmen struck fatal blows. Trampling
the bodies of the defenders, a hundred raiders surged
into the breach. The tall farmer who had been the
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waited only long enough to ascertain the direction of
the charge, and then scuttled to Osprey. The mare
grazed patiently a dozen yards downhill of her mistress.
The sister knight scout sprang to her saddle as the
horse broke into a gallop. She cut several circles in
the air with her sword, and the rest of the company,
already mounted, charged up the hill toward her at
the signal. Aileen shed her tunic of brown and green,
and seized the lance she had thrust into the ground.
In another second, she fell into her position on the
left flank.
The Sisters of Synnoria charged in brilliant formation.
The great white horses cantered gracefully, a
precise six feet apart. The line of twenty silver
lances, gleaming righteously, the knights held aloft.
From the tip of each, the gaily colored pennants still
trailed into the air.
The knights rode with visors down, metal armor
gleaming. Each matched the movement of the others
so exactly that they might have been one knight and
nineteen shadows.
Laric, leading the charge of the Bloodriders, saw
the pennants, and then the silver lances, arise from
behind the crest of the hill, and he knew that the
riders would follow.His cracked and bloody lips moistened
at the thought of the one he sought. The horsemen
thundered on, each Rider grimly silent atop his
snorting, pounding steed. They did not alter their
course, but thundered directly toward the oncoming
horsewomen.
The savage fighting along the ditch faded slightly,
and then paused, as northmen and Ffolk alike
turned to watch the clash of the mounted riders.
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attempted, through Trahern, to hold back the anxious
Firbolgs, the Bloodriders spurred their gaunt
steeds and thundered toward the battle. Turning
with a fiery oath, the Red King shouted his frustration
at the backs of the charging horsemen. Before he
could realize his mistake, the Firbolgs had also
rushed forward, and Grunnarch was left with no
reserve.
The battle would now proceed out of control, and
the Red King grimly strode forward to exact a few
blows of his own before the carnage ended. At least
he saw the Bloodriders rushing toward the bare
hill—Laric had obviously seen the same weakness in
the enemy position that he had. The Firbolgs lumbered
behind the Riders, also making for the hill.
Still annoyed, Grunnarch held no doubts as to the
outcome of the battle. He would have preferred the
fight to go a little more according to plan, but knew
that his army would soon crush the amateur defenders.
The enemy included a few able knights, but the
Bloodriders would soon find and destroy these. The
peasants would be scattered.
Then he saw the enemy riders, silvery force astride
their white mounts, riding over the crest of the hill to
meet the Bloodriders’ charge.
“Ah,” he chuckled to himself. “They ride forward to
bring on their deaths that much more quickly.”
And he paused for a minute to watch the fight.
* * * * *
Aileen, lying in the grass at the crest of Freeman’s
Down, saw the Bloodriders break into the field. She
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blurring her vision and sending the horizon reeling.
She felt the world growing black, and she slumped in
the deep saddle. Osprey held her place in the line,
even as Brigit ordered the company about, while her
mistress rode, unknowing, into another charge.
* * * * *
Laric’s blood pounded in ecstasy as he pulled the
dripping blade from the wound. His eyes glowed with
unearthly fire, and he raised his voice in a piercing
yowl of triumph. Heated and vitalized, he turned
toward the silver riders.
He thirsted for more of the enemy’s hot blood. Even
around the rush of pleasure, Laric could sense his
strength failing. The loss of so many of his Riders
had exacted a toll that could only be paid in blood.
Steeds snorting angrily, the Bloodriders turned in
pursuit of the sisters, even as the elven knights
turned to strike again. Watching the charge form,
Laric vowed that this time, they would prevail.
* * * * *
Gavin’s bellow of command electrified the reserve.
With screeching war cries, the Ffolk rushed forward.
The great smith led them all, his huge hammer
swinging easily above his head. Northmen poured
through the breach in the line before him, raising
war cries of their own. The momentary lull that had
fallen over the field when the riders clashed vanished
as suddenly as it had occurred.
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The breastplates and faceplates of the horses, and
the armor of the sisters, all gleamed flawlessly in the
sun, casting long shadows across the rolling down.
Sharp, hot reflections of silver flickered like beacons
over the rest of the battlefield.
The white horses broke into a gallop as the line
rumbled down the gentle slope of Freeman’s Down.
The momentum of the steeds built, aided by the
weight of metal each horse carried. The Bloodriders
had them outnumbered five to one, but the Sisters of
Synnoria had the advantage of downhill speed.
As she rode, Aileen felt her lance nestle comfortably
beneath her shoulder, and she sighted the tip
upon the chest of a leering Bloodrider. The ghoulish
figure raised his sword and cracked open his mouth.
Then the lance splintered through his chest, breaking
his body and slamming him to the ground.
Around him, many of his comrades met the same
fate—in all, about twenty Bloodriders crashed to the
ground in the first instant when the forces met.
The remaining Bloodriders spun their more agile
steeds to swarm like sharks around the sisters, hacking
with weapons while the black horses kicked and
bit. Aileen, alone on the left end of the line, deflected
blows from in front and behind her. Her lance
became useless in this close combat, but she did not
want to drop it.
“Forward!” cried Brigit. “Don’t slow!”
And in seconds the speed of their horses carried
the sisters clear of the savage Riders. Aileen, however,
felt the searing thrust of cold iron tear her
shoulder. Somehow, one of the frightening horsemen,
desperate for blood, had stretched out and cut her.
The pain of the wound rushed through her body,
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lumber onto the hill. He prayed fervently that the
next part of his defensive plan would work. He
looked toward the field, beyond the lines, and saw
the Bloodriders and the Sisters of Synnoria again
ride together. This time, the black horses swerved
form the path of the frontal assault, and the knights
struck only a few from the saddle. Many of the sisters
had lost their lances by now, and the battle quickly
turned to a close melee, sword against sword.
And here the odds would work against the sisters,
as each knight faced four or five Bloodriders. Tristan
realized, suddenly, that the battle was nearly won,
and the sisters could be dying needlessly. He must
call them back!
As soon as he made this decision, he nudged
Avalon’s flanks, and the great stallion sprang
through the line at the ditch, easily leaping the
muddy obstacle. Canthus accompanied his master,
streaking like an arrow along the ground.
Before him, the swirling mass of horses, swords,
fur capes, and silver armor spread chaotically. He
heard the screams of wounded horses, and the sharp
orders of Brigit that still seemed to float like music
through the horror that was battle.
And then he was a part of the melee.
* * * * *
Groth led the Firbolgs in a heavy charge toward
the bare hilltop. Let the humans fight the dirty
battle in the ditch, thought the Firbolg king to himself.
His giants would seize the high ground and then
take the enemy in the rear!
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“Miserable scum!”snarled the smith, splattering
the brains of a raider with a vicious, curving blow.
“Die, northman!” The word was a curse.
Another dropped like a felled tree as the smith
recovered instantly from his swing, reversing the
momentum of the hammer to tap this one on the
forehead, that one on the shoulder. The Ffolk of
the reserve struck the charging northmen to
either side of their leader, and the line ebbed and
flowed as the two forces vied for the ground.
And slowly, inspired by the strength and heroism
of the smith, the Ffolk drove the northmen back
through the breach. Scores of fighters on each side
lay dead or dying, but the press of Gavin’s reserve
finally sealed the line.
The smith looked up to see the prince, upon
Avalon, wiping the bloodstained sword of Cymrych
Hugh. Tristan had ridden to the breach and helped to
close it.
“Splendid charge!” the prince cried.
The praise brought the first trace of a smile to
Gavin’s face since he discovered the massacre at
Cantrev Myrrdale, and that thought stood out in
Tristan’s mind amid the death and pain surrounding
him.
The prince looked around and saw Robyn kneeling
beside a wounded young man. Keren still stirred the
force with his harp, while the Ffolk stood firm all
along the line. Daryth and Pawldo paused, amid the
bodies of dead raiders, and the halfling waved at the
prince.
“Send more northmen!” he cried, brandishing his
bloodstained blade.
The prince smiled, and then saw the Firbolgs
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* * * * *
Laric rode through the tumult, constantly seeking
the knight he had struck. He drooled at the thought
of finishing the job. Should she already be dead, he
did not want her body to escape him.
His charcoal eyes sought eagerly, peering closely at
each of the sisters he saw. The dried, rotted flesh of
his nose crinkled and dropped away as he sniffed her
delicious scent.
And then he found it.
The wounded knight slouched motionless in her
saddle, closely protected by a comrade to either side.
Her silver armor, from left shoulder to left foot, was
tarnished by bright blood. The slender body, even
concealed by metal plate, seemed to call Laric with
undeniable force.
Spurring his black stallion, Laric drove toward the
motionless sister. A Bloodrider charged close at each
side, skillfully distracting the two knights guarding
their wounded sister. Reaching forward, his clawlike
hand concealed by a heavy gauntlet, he seized the
reins of his victim’s horse and pulled.
Startled, Osprey lurched ahead. A moment later,
Laric’s captive knight and her horse vanished into a
group of Bloodriders.
Avalon carried the prince into the fray with thundering
speed. Tristan slashed the Sword of Cymrych
Hugh, and struck a Bloodrider from the saddle with
his first blow. The sword surged through the corrupt
body, eagerly. A hot wave of pleasure tingled in the
prince’s hand, as if the sword itself had enjoyed the
killing.
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For the first time since the destruction of his
stronghold, Groth felt happiness again swell within
his monstrous heart. Today he would get the chance
to exact revenge for that defeat. He caressed the
knobby head of his club, imagining it covered with
his enemy’s gore.
Suddenly his right leg collapsed beneath him, and
Groth hit the ground with a thud. Sharp pain lanced
through his thigh, and his nose struck the ground
sharply. Dazed, he raised his head and looked
around, seeing others of his troop tumbling down.
Then, a small shape darted from the grass, a wicked
battle-axe upraised. A dwarf!
Groth desperately rose and slashed out with his
club, crushing the dwarf ’s skull. Yet that was only
one. The dwarves, blood enemies of the Firbolgs,
attacked with cruel efficiency, hamstringing many of
their giant opponents with the first attack. Now they
swarmed over the rest, hacking with those murderous
axes, or scuttling and ducking away from the Firbolgs’
return blows.
Panic clutched at Groth. He fought off another
dwarf, climbing to one knee. More of the Firbolgs fell
as the dwarves—merciless and cunning—closed in
for the slaughter. In moments, the Firbolgs who had
not fallen beneath the weapons of the dwarves lost
heart—their fallen leader, and the surprise of the
attack by the wily dwarves, had quickly shattered
what remained of their morale.
“Help me!” groaned Groth, as the fleeing Firbolgs
trundled past. He finally persuaded a pair to support
him. Thus, ignominously carried, the mighty Groth
left the field of battle.
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Avalon skillfully twisted to prevent more than one
of the attackers from striking at the same time. Canthus
dodged nimbly among the pounding hooves,
striking at the rear legs of the black horses. Once, the
moorhound fastened his teeth into the leg of a Rider.
Canthus held on, growling, as the pitching and bucking
of the horse jerked the dog around.With a savage
pull, the hound tore the Bloodrider from his horse to
crash heavily to the ground. With one savage bite,
the dog tore the rest of his face off.
Now the Riders realized that they could not ignore
the snarling hound in their midst. Several attempted
to strike him down, slashing thin air as the agile dog
sprang away, although one swordcut left a bleeding
slash along his back.
Suddenly the prince saw a flicker of white through
the Bloodriders, and saw one of the enemy leading a
white mare with a sister knight slumped, unconscious,
in the saddle. The woman’s captor pulled free
of the melee, tugging sharply on the reins of the
reluctant mare.
A nudge of Tristan’s heels sent Avalon springing
after the helpless captive, leaving his three attackers
to find a new opponent. Tristan had recognized the
mare as Osprey. The thought of the lively and spirited
Aileen in the hands of a ghoulish Rider inflamed
the prince.
Another Rider reared into Tristan’s path, and his
gleaming sword nearly severed the neck of the black
horse. The steed dropped like a stone, and Canthus
tore out the Rider’s throat before he could recover.
Avalon smashed into the steed carrying Aileen’s
captor, and the Bloodrider’s grip on Osprey’s bridle
broke. The white mare skipped away, carrying her
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A vicious cut assailed the prince from the right,
and suddenly Tristan was fighting for his life amid a
circling cluster of skull-faced Riders. Desperately, the
prince sought Canthus.
The great hound had stayed with his master in the
long charge across the field, and now fought with
him among the pounding hooves and clashing steel.
A Rider lunged at him, and the prince got his first
good look at one of the hideous faces. He saw the
bones of the skull showing through cracked and
rotted flesh, sickening him. He nonetheless parried
the creature’s wild swing, and thrust sharply with
his own weapon, grazing his opponent’s side.
The Rider leered at him from those glowing, hot
eyes. The prince could see no white, nor pupil—just a
liquid pool of red heat, and lust for killing. The
Rider’s face, so pasty white that it might have been
the bone of his skull, remained frozen in a hideous
grin. His lips were bright red strips of skin stretched
taut and cracking around his mouth.
A spittle of drool, pale pink in color, trickled from
the Rider’s grotesque mouth to run, unnoticed, across
his chin. As the creature struck again, the prince saw
the hellish eyes glow with increased intensity. This
time Tristan’s response proved more effective, as he
dodged the blow and then struck his attacker’s sword
arm off at the elbow. The Rider displayed no pain, but
continued to lunge and strike at the prince with the
gory stump.
The prince saw that no blood flowed from the
wound. And then that antagonist vanished in the
chaotic motion of the melee, and Tristan thrust and
parried with three horsemen that attacked
together.
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stained sword strike underneath the sister’s guard,
cut through the hard metal of her armor, and sink
into her heart. She slumped, mortally wounded, in
her saddle.
“Monster!” growled the prince, but now the
swirling course of the battle took the killer away
from him. Still, he marked that one, remembering
well the deathshead grin and crimson eyes of this
Rider.
And then the Bloodriders streamed away from
them, galloping as a group into the protective cover
of the nearby forest. Only now did Tristan look
around, beyond the limits of the battlefield, and see
the upraised arms of the Ffolk.
He heard their throaty cheers and saw Gavin, still
swinging his gory hammer, striding up, followed by
the reserve. The smith had led another charge, and
this one had driven the remaining northmen to the
trees.
The prince saw the hillside, the strip along the
ditch, and the field where the riders had battled, covered
with bodies of the dead and dying. He leaped
from Avalon’s back to the side of the sister who had
saved his life. Ignoring the blood that now coated the
white horse, as well as the rider’s body, he released
the belt that held her in the saddle and lowered her
gently to the ground.
Carefully, he lifted the silver visor. Carina’s eyelids
flickered once, as the prince stared in shock.
The slender, elfin face broke into a smile—the first
that Tristan had seen there—and then Carina died.
Gently, he laid the elf upon the grass, and Robyn and
Keren joined them.
Next he sought Canthus, lying somewhere on the
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unmoving rider to safety.
Never had the prince seen such an unearthly, or
hateful, fire as he now beheld in the eyes of the
Bloodrider. The man’s sword flew blindingly toward
Tristan’s face, and the prince lurched backward with
a clumsy parry. Again the lightning attack, and
although the blade did not strike home, the Bloodrider’s
savage horse managed to knock the prince to
the ground.
The wind exploded from his chest as he landed on
his back, and he lay helpless among the bucking and
screaming horses, gasping for breath. His opponent’s
steed reared over him, and the prince struggled
through the churned mud to avoid the hooves that
sought to shatter the life from his skull.
And then Canthus leaped between them, springing
so high that his jaws tore at the shoulder of the
Rider. The man knocked the moorhound aside with
a blow from the hilt of his sword, but Canthus
immediately crouched for another spring. The black
stallion twisted as it reared, and as the hound
sprang, those heavy hooves met the dog in mid-air,
driving into the broad skull. Soundlessly, Canthus
dropped to the ground and lay still.
“No!” cried Tristan.
The Rider charged forward again to strike at the
now standing prince. Before the charge could connect,
however, a silver shape interceded and one of
the sisters met the attack.
The Bloodrider hacked viciously, with superhuman
strength, at his tiny opponent, as Tristan leaped
again to Avalon’s back. He spurred to the aid of his
rescuer.
Just as he reached the pair, he saw the Bloodrider’s
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high log dam that maintained the level of the Darkwell.
The dam was small, perhaps half the height of
Kamerynn, but the trunks that held it together
measured a foot or more in girth. The Firbolgs had
stacked several dozen of the felled trunks across the
small stream that had flowed from the Moonwell,
and then bolstered the dam with an earthen dike to
either side.
Kamerynn’s keen eyes surveyed the nest of logs,
finally selecting a weak point. He reared and struck
the rotted timber with a backward kick.
Again and again, he pounded the log, finally splitting
it. One half fell from the face of the dam, and
Kamerynn kicked it aside. Selecting another timber,
exposed by the loss of the first, he destroyed it, and
then another.
The dam began to crumble. Great logs broke free,
tumbling into the growing stream, and the rest of the
timbers shifted violently. Kamerynn’s footholds
rolled completely, and suddenly the unicorn’s
forelegs slipped into the churning trunks. Bones
snapped, as tons of wood crushed even the sturdy
legs of the unicorn.
Black, polluted water splashed into Kamerynn’s
face, choking and gagging him. The liquid seared like
acid against the unicorn’s skin, destroying his eyes
and driving him into a frenzy of pain.
But the weight of the logs held him down, and
black water surrounded him, and soon he knew only
blackness.
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muddy battlefield. Night was falling rapidly, however,
and he failed to locate the dog. The northmen
prepared a camp only a few hundred yards away, and
finally his companions persuaded him to pull his
troops back to the relative security of their line.
Brigit joined them as they slowly rode toward the
bloody ditch. She looked somber, and tears welled
within her eyes. She spoke to Tristan with no trace of
emotion, however.
“We’ve lost Carina, as you know. Aileen, I fear, will
not live through the night. She has lost much blood,
and the wound of the Bloodrider’s sword seems to
fester unnaturally.”
“And the rest of the sisters?”
“They live, none of them seriously wounded.”
“The Ffolk fought well,” observed the bard. “But
losses were very heavy . . . as if they had not had
enough already.”
“We cannot fight here again,” said Robyn. “The carnage
has been too great!”
“You’re right,” said the prince. He looked at the
woods, where the northmen had withdrawn, and
then toward the Corwell Road, where the tide of
refugees was already slowing as most of the Ffolk
had passed this point already.
“Still, we whipped them today, didn’t we?”
* * * * *
The thick, black water bubbled slowly. Normally
snow-white, the shanks around Kamerynn’s ankles
trailed, black and grimy, along the muddy shore. At
the outflow, the unicorn stepped carefully across the
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16
HOME
AFLICKERING SHADOW DIPPED over the battlefield,
rose, and dipped again. Darting low, the small
shape swept from body to body, seeking one specific
one. Finally, with a delighted chirp, the swallow
settled to the ground next to the one it had sought.
The tiny bird hopped across the churned, muddy
turf, to peck with concern at a shaggy ear. It tilted its
head and focused black, shining eyes on the great
black nostrils inches from its face. Again, it chirped,
this time as it observed those nostrils flaring slightly
with passing breath.
The shadow shimmered, or perhaps it was the
moonlight itself that wavered. Then the swallow was
gone, and where it had been stood the plump form of
an elderly woman.
“There, my puppy,” she said, stroking the bloody
head. “Such a brave dog.”
Genna Moonsinger called the power of the goddess,
and brought it welling from within her heart, flowing
through her fingertips into the still form of the great
moorhound. Slowly, the long slash in the animal’s
side closed. The broken skull mended, and the dog’s
shallow breathing grew deeper and stronger. The
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the rear, plodded grimly past without looking up. Yet,
they marched to Corwell to fight in a human war.
Gavin stepped to the prince’s side while the company
of the Eastern Cantrevs marched past, five
hundred strong. Another hundred would remain, forever,
at Freeman’s Down.
“Any word of pursuit?” asked the smith.
“Three hours past dawn, and they still haven’t
broken camp!” exclaimed Tristan.
“Good. These Ffolk could not wage another battle
now.”
The fighters of the Eastern Cantrevs walked past
steadily. Fatigue and pain were writ on the duststreaked
faces. Yet many straightened their shoulders
and wore looks of pride as they passed the
prince and the smith.
“Soon, they will have no choice. But by then we
should have the companies of Caer Corwell behind
us!”
“Perhaps,” muttered Gavin, with a long look to the
east. He nodded curtly to the prince, and stepped
back onto the road as the last of his company passed.
His shoulders, too, were straight as he marched
toward Corwell.
Tristan spurred his stallion forward, and Avalon
galloped along the side of the road, past Gavin’s company,
and then Finellen’s, until he reached a stretch
of clear road. The white stallion leaped a stone fence
and landed in the road, stretching low as his rider
gave him his freedom to run.
For a minute they thundered down the road, and
then the prince saw a pair of horses before him, grazing
quietly in a small meadow. He reined in beside
them and saw Daryth and Pawldo lying in the shade
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long, shaggy tail slowly thumped against the ground.
With a low whimper, Canthus rolled stiffly onto his
belly and tried to lift his head from the ground. He
gave up quickly, when throbbing pain resulted, but
moved his tail slightly as a gesture of enthusiasm.
He looked up at the great druid, then his eyes closed
and he fell asleep.
“Good dog,” Genna whispered, smiling sadly. “You
sleep now.We’ll talk tomorrow.”
Canthus’s low, steady breathing was his only
response. Sadly, she stood, wishing she could simply
leave the dog to return to his master.
But she needed him.
* * * * *
Six sister knights cantered beside Corwell Road, as
the little army marched along. The armor of the
knights was tarnished and dented, and only three of
them still held lances. The white horses were mottled
with grime and blood. One of the steeds had a bloodstained
bandage wrapped across its shoulder.
Still, the sister knights rode proudly, as if their
dents and dirt were badges of honor. The outriders
broke into pairs, and spread out to the flanks of the
column.
Tristan sat upon Avalon, watching the long column
wind away from him toward Corwell. The dwarves
trooped steadily past him, three score minus eight
that had fallen upon Freeman’s Down. They marched
stoically. Some of the whiskered faces turned up to
regard the prince as they passed, but Tristan could
read nothing in these gazes. Finellen, bringing up
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wanted to see Robyn, to talk to her, but he wanted
some time to sort out his thoughts. He did, indeed,
want to confront the ghoulish horsemen again. The
Sword of Cymrych Hugh felt light against his thigh,
as if the weapon too had the desire to renew the
attack.
Instead, he turned at the sound of another rider,
and saw Keren riding up to join him. The bard’s harp
was slung over his shoulder, but as usual he was
absently humming a tune.
“Are you still writing that song?” asked Tristan.
“And nothing else! You’ve given me several splendid
verses over the last few days, I must say. You
handled yourself and the rest of us very well indeed!”
The bard’s bantering tone could not mask the genuine
respect in his eyes.
“I am honored by your words,” responded the
prince. “But there is no measuring the spirit you
gave to our troops with the music of your harp.Without
it, I doubt the battle would have been won.”
“The spirit was not mine to give, but perhaps to
awaken. Nevertheless, I thank you.”
“Awakened it enough to give us a smashing victory!”
said the prince.
“Hardly!” disagreed Keren, sharply. “We met a
small, demoralized army at the end of a hard march,
and held it up for a few hours. We did that, and we
did it well! But this enemy is far from smashed, my
prince. And you endanger us terribly,” he continued,
“if you think otherwise!”
* * * * *
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of a broad oak tree. Swinging down from the saddle,
Tristan released Avalon to graze, and stretched out
beside his companions.
“Where’s Canthus?” Daryth asked.
“He fell, fighting those Riders,” Tristan said, fighting
back tears. “I searched for his body, but found
nothing before dark.”
“Damn them!” cursed the Calishite, spitting. “That
hound was worth five of those horsemen!”
“And that’s nearly how many he took with him,”
exaggerated the prince.
“We should have taken them again!” growled
Pawldo, looking to the east. “Then they’d not be following
us!”
“I wish we could have,” said Tristan, sincerely. “
Still, we hurt them, badly, I think. By the time we
get to Corwell, they’ll be in no shape to fight a
battle!”
“There’s an enchantment laid on those Riders on
the black horses,” grunted Pawldo. “I can smell magic
a mile away! We should have wiped ’em out when we
had the chance.”
“All too soon we’ll get another chance.” Tristan suddenly
felt very weary. He climbed to his feet. “Is
Robyn riding with the wounded?” he asked.
“Yes,” replied Daryth. “She’s in the wagon with
Aileen. I was up there most of the morning—that’s
an evil wound she’s suffered!”
“Sorcery!” interjected Pawldo. “I told you!”
“I’m quite sure that you’re right,” answered the
prince as he mounted Avalon. “I saw the eyes of the
creature that struck her. Whatever it was, it was not
human!”
Now Tristan let Avalon amble down the road. He
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cheered by the sight.
But as the fleet drew closer, the winds sprang even
more strongly from the shore. The raiders strained at
the oars, the longships advancing slowly against the
growing force of the breeze. Steadily, though, they
inched closer and closer to the port.
* * * * *
“More wind!” The King of Corwell’s bellow rang out
across the Corwell docks, and the three druids bent
to their task. Gusts of wind exploded from the little
port to roar across the firth, pushing against the
invading longships with relentless force.
Then, the youngest druid—a woman of two score
years—clutched her throat. With a strangled gasp,
she toppled forward to lie motionless.
“My lord!” Quinn Moonwane, druid of Llyrath
Forest, turned to King Kendrick and spoke harshly.
“We cannot maintain the wind much longer! If you do
not let us rest, we will be useless when they finally
land, as they will do!”
The king stood very still, staring at the druid. Murderous
rage seethed within, but finally he turned
away and stalked off along the waterfront.
He passed the men of the Corwell Company, which
was led by the Lord Mayor Dinsmore himself. That
pudgy captain, a shiny brass helmet perched ludicrously
upon his bald head, waddled after the king.
“My lord! We cannot let them enter the harbor! We
simply must have more wind! You must speak to
the—”
“Be quiet, you imbecile!” roared King Kendrick,
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The waters of Corwell Firth placidly guided the
narrow hulls. After the rolling swells on the Sea of
Moonshae, the smooth bay might have been a pond
for all the challenge it presented to the veteran
sailors. To the north and south of the fleet, the green
hills of Corwell climbed into the hazy sky. Sea birds
soared behind the ships, dipping toward the fish
churned up in the wakes.
Thelgaar Ironhand stood in the bow of the leading
longship. His gaze locked to the east, he searched the
horizon for the first sign of the town and castle of
Corwell. The Iron King had been unusually patient
in the last few days, but his men sensed their leader’s
tension.
The steady stroking of the oars drove the longships
forward. The air had remained still since the fleet
had taken to sea following the enforced stop for
repairs. Consequently, the northmen had been forced
to row much of the distance. Now, as they approached
their destination, the time for rowing would soon be
over.
But, as the fleet pushed its way through the long,
sheltered neck of Corwell Firth, a fickle offshore
breeze arose, as if attempting to drive the northmen
away. The sailors leaned into their oars and the ships
tacked back and forth, but the wind fluctuated in its
course from northwest to southwest, delaying passage
through the Firth for several days more.
Then the fleet approached close enough for Thelgaar
to see Caer Corwell, high on its rocky knoll.
Soon afterward, the raiders could discern the town
sprawled along the shore below the castle. Crouched
behind its low wall, the town seemed to cower in fear
before the approach of the raiders. And they were
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King Kendrick climbed to the top of a wooden bulwark
that had been hastily erected on the dock. It
masked two slender catapults and their crews.
“Have you got the range?” demanded the king.
“Aye. We’ve sighted on the harbor mouth, sire,”
replied one of the band.
The king sprang down to the dock, and came to
another bulwark, this one made of straw piled to
shoulder height.
“Are the archers ready?” he asked, spying a
bowman peering over the straw.
“Yes, my lord! We’ve a hundred of us back here—
and half that number of small folk have arrived with
their bows from Lowhill.”
“Good. Send them to me.”
The longships drew steadily closer, as the king
installed the halfling archers on the roof of a small
warehouse beside the docks. By the time the last
defenses had been prepared, the enemy vessels had
narrowed into a column, and the leading ship neared
the narrow gap in the breakwater that gave access to
Corwell Harbor.
The lead vessel advanced quickly, her rowers driving
her forward with rhythmic strokes. A white wave
foamed from her bow, and the tall prow loomed
higher and higher as the ship darted through the
gap. The king could see a northman—probably the
enemy king—standing at the prow. The raider was a
huge man, bristling with a white beard and long hair
of the same color. Even at this distance, the fanatical
intensity of his gaze made him look like a madman.
“Now!” cried King Kendrick.
At his command, the artillerists released their
weapons. The long beams of the catapults cracked
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sending the mayor scurrying back to his company.
“Ready yourself to drive them away when they land!”
One of the king’s loyal lieutenants, a lean swordsman
called Randolph, approached. Frustration
showed everywhere in the warrior’s mien.
“Damn these shortsighted fools!” Randolph
snorted, “They have no sense of the stakes of this
battle—all they can think about are their petty territorial
squabbles.”
“Koart and Dynnatt?” asked the king, staring at
the clear waters of the firth.
“Yes. They are here with their companies. Now,
they argue as to who will strike the first blow when
the raiders come ashore. Each seems certain that
the battle will end there, before the other can share
in the ‘glory’.” The captain’s voice was heavy with
disgust.
“The halflings?”
“They have evacuated Lowhill. A small company of
archers came to the town—the others have fled past
Caer Corwell with the refugees from the east.”
But the king had ceased listening. He squinted into
the haze of the firth and stared. “They’re coming,” he
said. “It will not be long now.”
As if on cue, the mist seemed to part, and sleek,
dark shapes emerged from the haze. More and more
of the looming objects appeared, and soon Thelgaar
Ironhand’s entire fleet, released by the inhibiting
breeze, swept toward Corwell. The sails of the longships
remained furled upon the masts, but the long
banks of oars dipped and rose with deadly precision.
As the druids marshaled their strength for battle,
the wind died completely away, allowing the fleet to
glide across calm water.
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lessly. A fifth, and then a sixth longship emerged
from the smoke as the raiders drove steadily closer
to the docks.
Leaving the archers to their own commanders, the
king ran back to the druids. Only two remained at
the ready. Quinn Moonwane looked up at the ruler’s
approach.
“We have marshaled our strength as best we can,”
Quinn Moonwane stated grimly. “Dierdre of Dynnatt
Grove is lost to us.”
The king noticed that the druid who had collapsed
while creating the windstorm lay, pale and unmoving,
at the rear of the docks. For a moment, a pang of
anguish crossed the king’s face, but he turned to
Moonwane with authority.
“Do your best. Try to damage the longships in the
harbor. We’ll have a better chance if we can force
them to land outside of the town.”
“Very well,” sighed the druid. He and Edric of
Stockwell—a stout druid of middle age—stepped to
the edge of the dock. The king could now see five
longships driving toward them—the sixth had
caught fire. These five were within a hundred yards
of the waterfront.
Quinn stood facing the approaching vessels while
the other druid moved several paces to the side. The
dark-haired druid raised his hands, closing his eyes
in concentration. He called upon the might of the
goddess, marshaling her strength from within the
earth, turning it to magical energy. Selecting one of
the ships as a target, he unleashed the power of the
goddess through the tool of his magic spell.
The enchantment seized the long beam of the longship’s
keel. The wood bent to the will of its Mother,
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forward as each weapon launched a fiery bundle of
pitch-soaked straw into the air. The missiles climbed
through a shallow arc, leaving thick trails of black
smoke to mark their trajectory, and then sizzled to
the water at either side of the longship.
“Missed, dammit!” cursed the king. “Again! Fire as
fast as you can!” Before the second volley of missiles
was launched, the king had left the catapults and
hurried to the archers.
A second longship followed the leader through the
breakwater, but this one took a flaming bundle in
the center of the hull. The oily pitch spattered
across the boat, and in seconds the fire had claimed
her midsection. Northmen leaped overboard, struggling
to the breakwater, or else sinking like stones
from their weight of weapons and armor. The boat
drifted against the breakwater as the fire spread
throughout the vessel.
Yet a steady stream of longships approached the
harbor mouth. The artillerists kept a steady rain of
flaming pitch upon them, igniting three more, but an
equal number slipped through the firestorm.
“Archers!” called the king. “Now!”
Showers of arrows soared from behind the straw
bulwark and the ridge of the warehouse. Many of
them found marks among the rowers of the enemy
king’s longship. King Kendrick stared in disbelief as
several of the missiles struck that leader himself,
only to be jerked from the wounds and cast scornfully
away. The pace of his driving advance slowed, however,
for many of his crew suffered hits from the
arrows.
Black smoke now obscured the mouth of the
breakwater as the burning longships drifted aim-
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shower of red mist. His robes, boots, and belt, soaked
with blood, fell to the dock, in the middle of a spreading
pool of gore. The King of Corwell turned in rage.
“Destroy them!” he bellowed, calling the artillerists
to direct their fire against the leading longship. The
archers sent their deadly missiles raking the two
other vessels that had not caught fire. Both of those
soon drifted to a halt; with no one alive to man the
oars.
But the leading ship resisted all attempts to incinerate
it. A curtain of protection appeared to surround
the vessel, as fiery missiles that seemed destined to
strike her suddenly veered away to hiss, uselessly,
into the water of the harbor.
Yet the raider king knew that he would not be able
to land his force on the docks. The fleet beyond the
breakwater already steered toward the gravelly
beach beyond the town, and the lone longship in the
harbor turned to withdraw.
King Kendrick snorted, momentarily satisfied at
the withdrawal. “Randolph? Where are you, man?”
The captain stepped up quickly, smiling at the
scene of destruction in the harbor. “We’ve slowed
them up, sire.”
“Indeed. How fares the organization of the companies?”
“Badly, my lord. Your presence is required, I fear,
before Dynnatt, Koart, and the Lord Mayor will
listen to reason.”
“Damn their pettiness!” The king turned to look at
the retreating longship. “Very well. I’ll find you as
soon as that one clears the harbor. And blast my son
again for disappearing when I most need him!”
Randolph hurried back to the lords, while King
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warping and twisting along its entire length. Nails
sprang from the oaken board of the hull. Shrieking
and groaning in protest, the twisted keel broke loose
from the longship, destroying the vessel. In seconds,
the ship became a spreading circle of wreckage and
swimming bodies on the surface of the harbor.
The other druid called forth a storm of fire that
surged across the water to spill against the hull of
the longship carrying the northmen’s king.
That king still stood boldly at the prow of his
vessel, and as the fire licked against the sides of the
ship, he cut his hand through a curt, chapping gesture.
Instantly, the flames sizzled away. At the same
time, the druid who had cast the flaming spell
clutched at his chest and doubled over. With an earsplitting
shriek, he toppled off the dock and splashed
into the water. Quinn started, turning to stare at his
comrade in growing anguish and fear.
“That one!” cried King Kendrick, pointing to the
white-bearded northman standing at the prow of his
ship.
Quinn Moonwane—the most powerful of the three
druids who had come to fight in Corwell—regarded
the raider king. His eyes, trained to see the good and
evil within nature, saw that the enemy king was not
human. The druid knew that he faced something corrupt
and very powerful, but he could not understand
its omnipotent nature.
Quinn took up his staff and pointed it at his foe.
From the deepest wells of his strength, he called
forth the might of the goddess. His enemy turned to
regard him, and the druid looked into those hellish
eyes for a split second.
King Kendrick saw the druid’s body explode into a
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and this was one reason the farm Laric rode across
burned now. Many other such dwellings had become
ashes during this long day of riding, and occasionally
the Riders had been fortunate enough to find Ffolk
within that had not had the sense to flee with the
rest of the population. The killing of these poor fools
had made a hot and nourishing feast for the scattered
Riders. As Laric rode from detachment to
detachment, he was encouraged to see that most of
his horsemen were slowly regaining their strength.
His company preceded the combined army of Grunnarch
and Raag Hammerstaad down the Corwell
Road. Ostensibly, the Bloodriders would scout for
pockets of enemy resistance and engage the rearguard
of the retreating Ffolk. Laric had his own priorities,
however, and the sustenance of his company
was highest among them. Thus, the Riders let the
Ffolk retreat unmolested, and Laric remained confident
that the enemy would not again offer battle
until they reached the imagined safety of Caer Corwell.
So, instead of scouting during this long day of
riding, the Bloodriders found nourishment, and grew
mightier.
* * * * *
Tristan finally caught up with the wagons and
carts carrying the wounded to Corwell. Cantering
beside the road, he passed a large wagon, thinly
padded with hay, carrying nearly a score of bloody
Ffolk. The wounded warriors, men and women both,
sat or lay listlessly while their transport jolted along,
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Kendrick stared at the lone vessel. He saw the whitehaired
enemy ruler, now standing in the stern. For a
moment, their gazes locked, before a swirling cloud of
smoke swept between them. The king felt, saw, the
explosive force of the enemy’s magic erupting toward
him.
Then, the building behind him erupted in a shower
of broken stone. The high wall collapsed forward,
burying the King of Corwell beneath a tumbling curtain
of jagged rock.
* * * * *
Laric rode hungrily across the ruined farm, ignoring
the blazing building and torn, muddy field. His
gaze remained fixed toward the west.
His eyes glowed red with pleasure at the memories—
the slaying of the sister knight had been an
exciting thing, fueling him for the battles to come.
The rush of that memory could not compare, however,
to his hunger for the knight he had almost
taken. That one, somehow, beckoned irresistibly to
him.
Laric did not know if that knight still lived, for the
spirit had flickered very weakly within her body
when he had seized her reins. Yet, he had discovered
no sign of her body, and he had searched diligently
through the bloody fields for it. Therefore, it seemed
that she must have accompanied the army toward
Corwell.
And if so, Laric knew, they would indeed meet
again.
But until then, the other Bloodriders needed to eat,
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battle. The dead are the price of that vic—”
“Price? Now you’re talking about them like pieces
of gold!” Robyn’s anger brought a flush of color to her
cheeks. Her green eyes bored into his mercilessly.
“You may be able to fight a battle, but being a
prince is more than that!” Robyn stopped, suddenly.
She bent over Aileen and mopped the sister knight’s
forehead with a soft cloth, before turning back to the
prince. “Tristan, you can lead these people through a
war, I think. But you must be worthy of leading them
in peace, as well. You must care!”
The prince cleared his throat, feeling suddenly
very responsible for the bad things that had happened
this day. He thought of Carina’s heroic death—
of the farmer and his wife who had fallen trying to
close the breach at the ditch. And of a hundred other
pairs of eyes that would never again see the light of
the sun.
“Robyn, I do care. It’s hard for me to show that, but
I want very much to be a prince and a man you can
be proud of.” He could think of nothing else to add,
and so rode quietly behind the wagon for several
minutes.
Suddenly, a clamor of noise attracted their attention
to the west. The prince could see a rider, galloping
beside the road toward them. With a sudden
eagerness, he realized that the man might bring
news from home.
“Take me with you,” called Robyn, reaching out.
Avalon trotted to the wagon, and the young woman
slipped nimbly onto the broad back of the horse.
Together, they raced the stallion up the long road.
Tristan saw a haggard rider, feebly lashing a foamflecked
horse. With a start, he recognized Owen, a
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pulled by six massive oxen.
Several similar wagons preceded this one, but he
finally reached a small cart pulled by a single horse.
Here, stretched on a bed of hay, lay Aileen, the sister
knight. Robyn sat beside her.
“How is she?” The knight’s slender face was exceptionally
pale from beneath the woolen blanket. Her
eyes were closed.
“She suffers horribly. The wound is not deep, but it
festers unnaturally—like those horsemen themselves.”
“The Riders on black horses—are they the scourge
you sensed, in Cantrev Myrrdale?” asked the prince.
“Yes. They leave a trail of corruption in the earth,
wherever they pass. It is very easy for me to see. It
seems that others have more difficulty.” Robyn
answered quietly, as if she were concealing some
deeper emotion.
“Could these Riders be the evil warned against by
the prophecy?”
“I don’t think so. They are more like a spawn of
some great evil.” Robyn looked him squarely in the
eyes. “I accompanied the knights when they buried
Carina, and I heard how she died. Why weren’t you
there?”
The prince could not meet her gaze. “There were
too many things to attend . . . I was looking for Canthus
. . .” he trailed off, appalled at having neglected
such a duty.
“She died to save your life!”
“I know that!” he snapped.
“Don’t you feel anything? Did you see how many of
our people died in that field?”
“Of course I feel! But we fought—and won—a
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The two friends nodded in understanding, and
turned to gallop eastward. Robyn’s grip tightened
about the prince’s waist as he urged Avalon to speed
in the opposite direction. The white stallion leaped a
low hedge and took to the fields.
Avalon seemed not to notice the additional rider,
carrying them both with easy grace, toward the home
that had suddenly become very precious. The prince
did not know what he could hope to do when he
arrived—he only knew that he had to get there as
quickly as possible.
* * * * *
“Idiot! Bumbling oaf!” Grunnarch’s temper raged,
now that he had found a victim for his wrath.
“You call me names, when it was your army that
was stopped by a band a peasant rabble?” Raag
Hammerstaad’s voice returned the Red King’s rage
easure. The two kings rose to their feet,
shaking their fists at each other across the campfire.
“If you had maintained pressure on that road—”
“If you had attacked with an army, instead of this
band of vermin, you could have taken that road! Look
at these men—I challenge you!” Raag gestured dramatically
at the camp.
In an instant the rage left Grunnarch, depression
again pushing other emotions into the background.
“Aye,” he grunted, sitting again. Puzzled and
frowning, Raag sat also.
“The spirit has been drained from this army, I tell
you, like the juice might be sucked from a lemon.”
Grunnarch paused, and then pointed roughly toward
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castle guardsman.
“My prince!” cried the messenger, reining in at
Avalon’s approach.
“What is it?” he asked, fearing the answer.
“Northmen raiders! They have landed at Corwell.
Even now they fall upon the town!” The words spilled
from the messenger in a chaotic tangle.
“When did they land?” asked Tristan, fighting
panic.
“Yesterday! They landed beyond the town—a least
a hundred longships! I set out to find you as they
approached the harbor, but saw them land before I
rode far inland.”
In a clatter of hooves, Daryth and Pawldo galloped
up to them. The halfling’s face grew pale as he heard
the news.
“What of Lowhill?” he asked.
“It has been evacuated, the halflings sheltering in
the castle or the town,” explained Owen.
“We must go there!” urged Robyn, as Tristan sat,
frozen, upon his horse. A graphic picture formed in
his mind of the grim rendezvous of two armies of
northmen at Corwell.
“Come on!” cried the woman, digging at his ribs.
“Yes, of course,” the prince replied. His mind spun,
and he had trouble grasping a single thought.
“Get word to the sisters,” Tristan said to the Calishite.
“Tell Brigit that Robyn and I ride to Corwell.
She should follow with her company, if the rear of the
column continues to remain secure.”
Turning to Pawldo, he said, “Find Finellen, and tell
her to get the dwarves to Corwell as fast as she can.
Gavin and the Ffolk will have to defend the column
from the rear, if need be.”
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bravely from the high tower.
They saw with relief that the town lay pristine and
intact beside its sheltered harbor. But, as the road
slowly dropped and they drew nearer their destination,
they saw other, more disquieting, signs.
The skeletal hulks of several ships jutted from the
waters of the harbor, and wreckage floated among
the hulks. Then, as they came around a low hill, they
saw the longships of the northmen, drawn onto the
beach a mile beyond the town. Like a creeping plague
of insects, the raiding army was swarming across the
moor toward Corwell.
The refugees from the Eastern Cantrevs bypassed
the town and castle entirely, moving on to the north
and west, toward more remote sections of the kingdom.
As long as Caer Corwell held out, the raiders
would not be able to risk a force in pursuit.
Seemingly tireless, Avalon increased his speed as
they approached. Now the prince could see encampments
around Caer Corwell. From them fluttered the
pennants of lords Dynnatt and Koart. Still, the fighters
of the Ffolk were vastly outnumbered by the
horde of raiders.
Finally, the stallion rode under the very shadow of
Caer Corwell, and Tristan guided him onto the long,
climbing road toward the gatehouse. The exertion of
the long run now took its toll, and Avalon slowed to a
trot. He carried them steadily upward until they
passed through the open gatehouse. Several guards,
shouting cries of welcome to their prince, ran to
spread the word of his arrival.
A young stableboy ran forward to take the white
stallion’s reins. “Welcome home, my prince, Miss
Robyn,” he cried.
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Myrloch Vale. “That place up there is a place I’d wish
on no man! I’ll not enter it again, were it worth my
life to do so!”
“I, however, shall return to the Vale,” said Trahern.
Until now the sullen druid had been ignored by the
kings.
“I thought you were accompanying us to Corwell!”
objected Grunnarch, but the druid waved away his
arguments.
“I have things to do here.” The druid rose and
quickly disappeared into the darkness.
“Well, you’re back in the realms of men, now,”
grunted Raag, looking curiously at his old friend. The
two kings had embarked upon many a raid together,
and never had Raag heard Grunnarch sound so worn
and out of control.
“Aye,” agreed Grunnarch, forcing himself to lift his
head. “This malady must certainly pass from us, now
that we have passed the borders of that nightmarish
place!” He tried to convince himself of the fact.
In another part of the camp, red, glowing eyes
looked over the sleeping army.
Hungry eyes.
* * * * *
In a half day’s travel, Avalon carried his two
riders over land that would take the refugees half a
week to cross. Shortly before sunset they crossed
the last rise east of the town, and began the long
descent to the sea. Caer Corwell, resting proudly
atop its rocky hill, stood out clearly against the
sinking sun. The pennant of the Lone Wolf fluttered
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Darkwell waned. The poison lost its potency as the
flood dissipated across a broad marsh, and the unicorn’s
body floated to rest against a broad oak tree.
As the waters drained away, Kamerynn lay still
upon a muddy bed of dead grass.
For a full day the unicorn did not move.
Kamerynn’s eyes, burned to senselessness by the
Darkwell, could see no glimmer of light, even from
the direct rays of the sun. The useless forelegs
throbbed with pain, and slowly Kamerynn’s awareness
drifted away.
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Robyn swung to the ground, followed by the prince
as the boy led Avalon away. For the first time, Tristan
noticed how fatigued the horse was—he held his
head low, and his flanks were covered with lather.
“It’s good to see you, my prince,” said Randolph, one
of the officers of the guard, as Tristan dusted himself
off and turned toward the great hall. The guard’s
manner was hesitant, welcoming, and relieved.
“It’s the king,” continued the man. “He was
wounded during the fight on the docks. He is in his
study now. My prince, you must see him!”
“Of course,” replied Tristan. He felt a flash of fear
for his father’s welfare that surprised him with its
depth.
* * * * *
Bobbing like a corpse in the rush of water, the unicorn’s
body disappeared into the oily liquid, then
popped to the surface again. Kamerynn’s snowy coat
had vanished. In most places, black and sticky mire
covered the broad body in grotesque patterns.
In other, uglier places, the caustic water of the
Darkwell had burned away the hair and some of
the skin. Great pink wounds lay exposed to the poisonous
and stinging touch of the unleashed torrent.
The waters of the Darkwell flooded far beyond the
banks of the little stream as they erupted from the
crumbling dam. Hissing poisonously, they destroyed
all vegetation in their path. The ground they flowed
across blackened—it would be lifeless for many
years.
Yet even as the water flowed, the power of the
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17
IDENTITY
BE VERY QUIET!” warned Friar Nolan. “You must
not agitate him!”
Tristan paused outside his father’s study and took
a deep breath. “Well, let’s go,” he said to Robyn. Nodding,
the maiden quietly opened the door into a firelit
room.
Hesitantly, Robyn approached the huge couch
where the king lay nearly buried beneath a pile of
quilts. Large blue-black bruises marked his face,
and one eye was swollen shut. His lips were cracked
and bloody.
Tristan, disbelieving the sight of the vulnerability
of his father, stood awkwardly behind Robyn.
The good eye fluttered open as the woman moved
closer, and the king held out a bandaged hand. “My
child, come here,” he croaked, clasping Robyn’s hand
as she stepped to his side. She matched his tight
grip, and for a moment they remained silent.
“You are strong,” the king said, finally. “Your
mother would be very proud of you.”
“Who is my mother, sir? Please, you must tell me!”
The need to know had grown within her during the
last weeks as her powers became more apparent. Her
350
tension caused her voice to shake slightly.
“Yes, it is time you knew,” said the king in a low,
weak voice. “It was only for your own protection that
we kept it a secret for so long.”
Robyn waited, surprised, as the king caught his
breath.
Tristan watched the two. He was painfully aware
that his father had not so much as greeted him.
“Your mother was Erianna Moonsinger, Great
Druid of all the Isles of Moonshae. You were her only
child.”
Robyn sat upon the edge of the bed, feeling
strangely calm. The news no longer had the power to
surprise her.
“What happened to her?” she asked.
“You were a year old when she brought you here.
Your mother and I had fought together against the
northmen. She trusted me. She told me that she had
to travel to Myrloch Vale, to one of the Moonwells.
Some sort of perversion grew there, and she was
going to cleanse it.
“She felt that it would be very dangerous, and she
wanted you cared for in case she did not return. I . . .
I never saw her again.”
“And my father?”
“I am sorry, but I do not know who your father was.
Erianna never said anything about him.”
“Why did I need to be protected—my identity a
secret?”
“Your mother warned me that potent evil gathered
strength in the land. It could be a generation or more
before it was released, but if her mission failed, such
a catastrophe would become an inevitability. The
druids are the most potent force we have, to cope
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“We were fortunate to have a man like him as our
leader during the last weeks!”
The king forced a smile from his cracked lips but
did not acknowledge her comment. Robyn rose to
take her leave. “Here,” said the king, reaching to the
side. “You are to have these now. They were your
mother’s.”
King Kendrick picked up a long staff of white oak
and handed it to Robyn. “This is the Staff of the
White Well. Your mother made it.” She took a deep
breath and touched the smooth wood. She could
almost imagine her mother’s hands—strong, but
gentle—caressing the shaft.
“And this.” The king handed her a heavy leather
tome, clasped with a brass lock. It was the largest
book Robyn had ever seen. A tiny silver key stood in
the lock.
Robyn, fearing she was going to cry, clenched her
teeth. All these years she had hoped for an answer to
a single question. Now, she had that answer, but it
only raised a thousand more imponderables among
her whirling thoughts. The king cleared his throat,
and she looked at him.
“I’d like to talk to my son.”
* * * * *
A waterfall tinkled across a sunlit face of rock to
splash musically into a clear pool. A brook, alive with
trout, foamed from the pool, through a broad clearing
bright with wildflowers. A surrounding forest of pine
and aspen provided security and shelter.
The power of the goddess flowed here, and this was
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353
with that evil. Your mother sensed great power
within you, even as a baby, and she feared for you,
should this evil presence become aware of your existence.
“She felt that on reaching adulthood, you would
take on the mantle of the druids and would play an
important role in the struggle. She hoped, as did I,
that you would be much older when this became necessary.
I see that you have matured much, in the
short months of this summer—you are as ready as I
could have hoped. Now we need your help in the
battle against the accursed enemies of our people!”
The king collapsed backward, exhausted from telling
the tale.
“I have seen the might of that enemy, sir, and have
already fought it,” replied Robyn, clasping the king’s
hand. “I will fight it as long as I live!”
“I admire your spirit, my chi— my lady. The Ffolk
have always resisted this evil, but we have never
completely defeated it. Even Cymrych Hugh failed,
in his final battle, to—”
“Father!” Tristan interrupted, stepping forward.
“We . . . I found the Sword of Cymrych Hugh! I
brought it to Corwell, and carry it now!”
The king’s eye clouded. “Don’t joke about such a
thing.” But his outburst was half-hearted, and he
looked at Robyn for confirmation. “Of course, he is
not joking.”
“He’s not,” she agreed, shaking her head slowly.
“You underestimate him, I think.”
“Perhaps.” The king was not convinced. “In any
event, he is fortunate to have a companion like you at
his side.”
Tristan bit his tongue and turned away, stung.
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apart, she placed it over Canthus’s head to lock
firmly about his sturdy neck. The thin strip of silver
vanished beneath the studded iron collar.
“There,” Genna said, “that might help—anyway, it
certainly can’t hurt. Now, begone with you! Get busy,
do you hear?”
If Canthus understood that he had just received
the benign blessing of the goddess herself, he did not
give any indication. He sprang up, bounded across
the field, and disappeared.
* * * * *
“How are you, Father?” Tristan asked awkwardly
after Robyn had touched his arm lightly and left.
“I fear I shall live,” replied the king hoarsely. His
manner was brusque.
“So you’ve found the Sword of Cymrych Hugh,”
continued the monarch. “Let me see it.”
Tristan slid the blade from its scabbard and
showed his father the gleaming weapon. The king’s
one good eye widened, and he reached a hand forward
to stroke the silver sword, lightly tracing the
runes inscribed into the metal.
“Where did you find it?” There was sudden energy
and life in his voice.
“In a Firbolg stronghold, in Myrloch Vale. It was
the same place Keren was held—we rescued him as
well!” The memory gave Tristan more confidence.
The king leaned back, and closed his eye. For a
moment the prince wondered if he had fallen asleep,
but then the wounded man sighed heavily and again
looked at his son.
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where the Great Druid of Gwynneth brought Canthus,
the moorhound, to recuperate. For days, the
great dog rested on the grass or upon a thick shelf of
moss on the bank of the pool.
The old druid chattered pleasantly to the dog, surprising
Canthus by speaking his language. The
hound would lie peacefully for hours as she talked of
hunting, and chasing, and running—things Canthus
understood very well.
“And how is my puppy today?” she greeted him, one
morning, after he had spent many days under her
care.
The huge tail thumped Canthus’s response, as he
sniffed to see what she had brought him. This morning,
however, the druid offered him nothing to eat.
Her mood seemed unusually serious.
“See how strong you have grown,” she told him,
stroking the smoothly mended skull, and the scarless
spot where the Bloodrider’s sword had cut him.
“And your coat, and your eyes—how shiny they
are!” Lovingly, she brushed her fingers through his
long coat, picking out a few last tangles.
“My puppy, you must help me,” she began finally,
speaking very slowly, For a long time, she very carefully
explained to him the task he needed to perform,
keeping her glittering, clear blue eyes upon the dog.
Canthus returned her stare. He waited for the
command. But she paused, a tear growing in the
corner of her old eye, and she fumbled within her
baggy pouch. Finally, she found what she sought,
bringing a silvery band of metal into the sunlight.
“But wait. Let me put this on.” She held in her
hands a silver torque, such as a great warrior might
wear into combat. Stretching the springy metal
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“My son,” the king said, his voice fluttering. “You
are a Prince of Corwell. You must not fail me in this.
I will not allow it!”
“You will not?” Tristan rose quickly, trying to control
his annoyance. “Father, I will not allow it!” He
turned and stalked from the room. A few minutes
later, riding Avalon, he thundered through the gatehouse
and raced down the road toward Corwell
Town.
* * * * *
The Pack had never eaten so well, The wolves had
been introduced to an assortment of new tastes—
mutton, pork, beef, horse, and human—by their new
leader.
The rolling tide of death would race through quiet
streets, smashing through windows, or pressing
against doors and walls until they collapsed, pouring
into the buildings to drag screaming Ffolk to a gruesome
death. Those that fled would be run down and
savaged in the fields.
Erian led the Pack through many cantrevs, always
leaving a wasteland devoid of animal life. Gradually,
the spawn of the Beast moved his fearsome band into
more heavily populated areas of Corwell. These
cantrevs, along the northern border of the kingdom,
had not known the cut of the northmen’s steel, but
found themselves faced with an enemy every bit as
merciless and implacable.
Now the great band of wolves set enthusiastically
upon entire communities, One such cantrev
attempted to screen itself with a massive ring of
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“How I searched for that blade! My entire youth,
and much of my manhood, was devoted to discovering
the Sword of Cymrych Hugh. All across Gwynneth,
and Alaron, and Moray, and all the rest of the
isles. Twenty years—no, more than that—I spent on
that quest. And you find it by accident!” The prince
could not tell if the irony amused or angered his
father.
“The goddess wants you to have it, that’s certain,”
continued the king. “And these other reports I’ve
heard . . . Do you really have dwarves and Llewyrr
elven knights fighting with you?”
“And a company from the Eastern Cantrevs—more
than five hundred strong.”
Tristan told his father about the army closing in
from the east. He described the battle at Freeman’s
Down, but did not elaborate on his adventures. He
was still bothered by his father’s cool reaction.
When Tristan finished his tale, the king merely
said, “As you can see, I will be of little use in the
coming battle. If Arlen were here, I would entrust my
army to him.” The prince felt a sudden surge of guilt
over his teacher’s death, as well as anger at his
father’s failure to respond to his story.
“But of course he is dead, and the commanders of
our forces bicker incessantly. I do not know that you
are ready. . .” He shut his eyes in frustration and
unrelinquished bitterness. “But you must take command
of these companies and compel them to fight
together!”
“The town is a lost position. You must convince the
Lord Mayor to evacuate everyone to the castle before
the raiders cut them off. We do not have much time,
so you must make haste!
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still perched atop the crown of his shiny head,
restrained by a thin strap under one of his many
chins.
“Such folly, I can hardly describe!” wailed Dinsmore,
as soon as the prince had entered the town
walls. “The Lords Dynnatt and Koart would not
stand within the walls. They form in the field, each
seeking to outdo the other in glory!”
“Damn!” Tristan urged the stallion through the
crowded streets to the low wall at the town’s
southern border. He was about to leap the barrier
and gallop into the field to confront Lords Koart
and Dynnatt, but he saw that there was no longer
any point.
The remnants of the two companies, led by their
esteemed lords, streamed chaotically toward the
town. The northmen gathered threateningly behind
them, prodding the retreat,
The prince looked around and saw that Lord
Mayor Dinsmore had caught up with him. Tristan
dropped quickly to the ground, holding Avalon’s
reins, and confronted the pudgy mayor.
“My Lord Mayor, we must evacuate the town!
Within the palisade of the castle we stand a much
better chance of stalling the attack!”
“Impossible!” the mayor wailed. “We cannot give
them the town!”
“They will take it, regardless,” snapped Tristan.
“Do you see how many of them are out there? Do you
think that low wall is going to slow them up?”
“I will die here, even if you choose to leave!” The
mayor’s brass helmet bobbed frantically as he made
his pronouncement, which seemed to startle even
him.
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burning tinder. The Pack waited until the fire burned
itself out, and then lunged in to slaughter everyone
within the enclosure.
Gradually, as he saw that the Pack was bent completely
to his power, Erian began to lead them
toward his true objective. They loped steadily southward,
their voices raised in cries as they crossed the
moonlit moors.
Now, Erian led them past rich cantrevs and farms,
forcing his wolves to ignore the tantalizing aromas of
all the foods their leader had taught them to love.
Erian allowed them to attack only when hunger
became a critical concern. Behind them they left a
wealth of carrion for the scavengers.
Erian did this intentionally, for when the wolves
reached their destination, he wanted them to be very
hungry indeed.
* * * * *
Tristan looked around, appalled. He tried desperately
to understand the plan behind the town’s
defenses, but concluded that there was no plan.
Three separate companies of troops, under three separate
commanders, were trying to defend the town
three different ways.
Lord Mayor Dinsmore met him as he passed
through the north gate in the town wall. This gate,
the most crucial in the link between town and castle,
was lightly garrisoned. Most of the town militia were
spread along the length of the town’s south wall.
“Oh, thank heavens you’re here, my prince!”
exclaimed the old mayor. His ridiculous brass helmet
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door. “Someone to see you—a knight! A female
knight!”
Tristan sprang to the door, quickly pulling it open.
“Brigit! Thank the goddess you have arrived.”
The slender knight stepped through the door, nodding
curtly to the men gathered in the cottage.
Her gelding was still blowing from the ride, and
the dust of the trail coated the knight’s armor.
“The company has remained outside the town
walls, to the north. The dwarves,” she added, managing
to say the word without distaste, “should be here
within two or three hours.”
“Excellent!” cried the prince, pounding his right
fist into his left palm. “Lord Mayor, let’s get these
people moving to the castle as fast as possible!”
* * * * *
Kazgoroth viewed the collection of life within
the castle and town of Corwell, and drooled at the
prospects. Forcefully, the Beast brought these hot
bursts of emotion under control. The plan needed
to be a careful one.
The Beast knew better than to try and reduce both
pockets of resistance—the town and the castle—at
the same time. Instead, they must be divided, and
then destroyed one at a time. Not only would the
defenders suffer the misery of watching their comrades’
deaths, but the attackers could concentrate
most of their strength against a single position.
The Beast focused the eyes of Thelgaar Ironhand
upon the castle road—the slender thread connecting
the town to the castle. Immediately beyond the road
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“And how many of our people will your vanity drag
down?” Tristan resisted the urge to grab the man’s
shoulders and shake him. “Don’t be a fool! You will
doom everyone within these walls to certain death!
Can you die with that on your conscience?”
The stout mayor sighed, as he appeared to deflate.
Even the helmet seemed to rest more solidly upon
his bald crown. “I cannot. Very well, what must we
do?”
“We must make a plan. Where can we meet the
lords?”
Tristan had Koart and Dynnatt summoned to the
mayor’s small cottage, where together they leaned
over the mayor’s dinner table to study a map the
prince had rendered on parchment. The two burly
competitive lords clumped into the room, leather
armor creaking. Neither of them had suffered a
wound, though their companies had fought hard.
“We’ve got a dangerous situation here, with the
number of people in the town,” the prince began.
“We will move these people, as fast as possible, to
the greater security of the castle. Therefore, it is
imperative that we keep the castle road, from the
north gate of town to the castle’s gatehouse, secure!”
He looked around. Gruff Lord Koart seemed about to
argue, but then changed his mind.
“We should have the services of a company of
horse, and of dwarven axemen, within another day at
the most, as well as a company of militia from the
Eastern Cantrevs. Until then, my lords, I ask you to
place your companies along the road. Lord Mayor,
your militia and any recruits we can muster within
these walls should continue to hold the town.”
“My prince!” called a swordsman, pounding on the
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face was covered with dust, which lines of sweat had
turned into muddy rivers running into the tangled
thicket of his massive beard.
“What is the plan, my prince?” he asked brusquely.
“We are beginning to evacuate the town,” explained
Tristan. “I have two companies of Ffolk and the
dwarves and halflings protecting the road. I would
like to hold you and the sisters in reserve. I think the
northmen will attack as soon as they realize what
we’re trying to do.”
“Very well,” said Gavin. “I shall assemble my company
before the gate.”
“Good!” exclaimed the prince. “We’ll start the evacuation
within the hour.”
* * * * *
Robyn’s door remained tightly shut, although a
glimmer of faint candlelight flickered through the
keyhole and underneath the door throughout the
long night. Even with the arrival of dawn, the door
did not open, nor did any voice respond when Gretta
called to the maiden, inviting her to breakfast.
Finally, the old housekeeper burst into the room
with a tray of hot tea and bread. The young woman
sat at her reading table, staring at the opened book
before her. She did not acknowledge the interruption.
Sniffing indignantly, Gretta set the tray noisily on
the dressing table and stomped out.
Robyn did not even notice the door close behind her
old friend. The book held her firmly to its pages, compelling
her to turn one after the other, as she carefully
devoured each word of every sentence.
DARKWALKER ON MOONSHAE
363
glittered the blue waters of the firth. If he could sever
that thread, the Ffolk in the town would be trapped
within those low walls.
The Beast took note of defensive preparations,
watching the two companies march into position to
defend the road. Kazgoroth felt little concern, recalling
the slaughter those same companies had just suffered
in their first encounter with the northmen of
Thelgaar Ironhand.
Smiling, Kazgoroth thought of the killing still to
come.
* * * * *
Daryth and Keren each embraced the prince
heartily. They stood before the north gate of the
town—the key link between castle and community.
The long stretch of road leading to the castle gatehouse
seemed a tenuous link indeed.
Where’s Pawldo?” asked Tristan, pausing in the
maddening pace of preparations.
Daryth nodded at the company of halflings forming
before the road. “He’s joined up with some of his kin.
What do you want me to do?”
“Can you stay with me? Both of you? I would welcome
your counsel.”
“We are at your service,” said the bard.
A huge gray horse galloped toward them. Behind it
marched a long column of troops—the Ffolk of the
Eastern Cantrevs. Tristan recognized Gavin astride
the horse.
The giant smith slowed to a trot, and then stopped
before the gate, swinging heavily to the ground. His
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* * * * *
Canthus raced tirelessly across the rolling
downs of central Corwell. His objective glared
sharply in his mind. Though he had never seen it,
its foul stench burned like a familiar enemy in his
nostrils. Unerringly, he raced toward that enemy,
instinctively changing course to home exactingly
upon his foe.
He killed and ate as he ran, never deviating from
his course. Some benign fortune seemed to send a
rabbit scampering in his path, or a pheasant
squawking from a bush just as the moorhound
loped past. In these instances, he killed and ate
quickly, and then slept for a few hours, before again
resuming his quest.
As the dog ran, he held his head low, swinging
slowly back and forth, trying to scent the quarry still
a hundred miles away. Those broad nostrils would
quiver as they identified an odor. His hackles would
raise instinctively into a bristling collar, and a low
growl would rumble from his cavernous chest.
The moorhound’s pace quickened slightly, as his
long legs carried him easily over mile after mile,
climbing the hills as easily as he went down them.
More days passed, and the scent grew stronger.
Once, he caught and ate a plump goose, sleeping
briefly as was his custom. He awakened soon,
alarmed by a wayward breeze.
Canthus knew that his enemy was very close.
* * * * *
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365
The Staff of the White Well lay comfortably across
her lap. The wood seemed to glow with an unnatural,
positive warmth. Each page of the book that she read
seemed to create for her a new vista onto the world, a
new point of view.
The book contained her mother’s thoughts. The
inscription stated that it was written to “Robyn, my
only child.” The pages of the book told of Erianna
Moonsinger’s life as a druid, and of the importance of
the druids to the Ffolk, the goddess, and the Moonshaes.
But her mother wrote as well about the land, and
she wrote about the goddess with a special reverence
that brought tears to Robyn’s eyes. She savored each
page, spending many minutes reading and rereading
every phrase. The long day passed again into night,
and Gretta entered again, quietly this time. She set
fresh candles in the holders, and saw that the room
was well lit, before she tiptoed out.
Through another night Robyn read the book,
unmindful of the battle menacing the town. Her
vision blurred with weariness, and her head nodded
occasionally from fatigue, causing her to jolt upward
and begin reading with renewed interest.
Finally, she read the secrets of her mother’s craft.
And now her eyes widened, and the need for sleep
vanished. The book drew her attention even more
deeply, quickening her pulse and sending vibrant ripples
of energy through her body. She now read the
last part of her mother’s book. She had passed the
words of greeting, of wisdom, of history and theology.
Now, she read the words of power.
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* * * * *
The last candle flickered wildly as the short wick
finally reached the brass holder. The flame
spurted high, and then went out, to leave only the
probing beams of the waning moon spilling
through the wide window to outline in silver the
flowing tresses of black hair that covered the lone
table.
Finally, her mind sated, Robyn slept. Her cheek
lay upon the smooth leather cover of her
mother’s book. She breathed easily and slowly.
Her long, thick hair covered her back, her sides,
and her arms, as well as most of the table, blanketing
her against the cool evening.
The smooth staff still rested across her lap. In
the sudden darkness when the moon disappeared
behind a cloud, it seemed to flicker and shimmer
with an inner light that vanished as moonlight
again spilled through the window.
As she slept, Robyn dreamed, more vividly
than she ever had in her life. She dreamed that
she was a small, furry animal, and she saw the
world as that animal might. Then she became a
wolf, and looked at the world through his shrewd
and hungry eyes. A fish, and a bird, all gave her
dreams, and each dream seemed to strengthen
and vitalize her.
She dreamed next of hot light and frigid darkness,
and of the warm gray that resulted from a
balanced mix of the two extremes. And finally she
dreamed of the goddess, resplendent in a soft, gray
gown and simple ornaments of silver. Her face was
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The throaty roar that rumbled across the field was
very different than the hollow cries of the northmen
at Freeman’s Down. Tristan barely noticed the fact,
for by then he could see thousands of northmen
charging across the field in an avalanche of assault
against his thin line.
The evacuation had not properly begun, for as soon
as the prince had posted the companies to guard the
road to the castle, the enemy had attacked.
Lord Koart’s company, to the left of the line, had
already lost a fight to these northmen this day and
had no stomach to fight again. One, and then
another, man broke from the lines, and suddenly the
whole company, some four hundred men, ran in rout
toward the castle.
And the northmen were still two hundred yards
away.
Seeing Koart’s men run, Lord Dynnatt’s men,
though shaken by the exposure of their flank, stood
firm against the charge. From the north gate of the
town, Tristan could see the company surrounded by
a horde of berserk attackers as the northmen
poured through the gap left by the flight of Koart’s
men.
The halflings, beside Dynnatt, fell back before the
press of the attack, as did the dwarves to their
right.
Dynnatt’s troops were wiped out to the last man,
and hundreds of northmen charged across the road,
down to the shore of the firth.
The town was cut off from the castle.
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Erian did not hesitate to spring forward to meet the
intruder. His own deep growl rumbled, and he bristled
for battle. Black lips curled upward to reveal long
fangs, slippery with drool and hungry for the kill.
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the face of serene beauty, but her eyes had been
tempered by tears.
And the goddess looked at Robyn, and smiled.
* * * * *
Erian looked across the ravaged field, suddenly
concerned. His crimson jaws dripped with gore, and
he stood astride the corpse of a half-eaten man. The
pleasure of the feast was forgotten as his sensitive
nostrils searched the air for the source of his worry.
The frenzied feeding of the Pack surrounded the
werewolf with a chorus of growls and snarls. But then
the wolves, sensing their master’s unease, slowed. One
after another, the gray heads raised from the kills, to
look across the field as they followed his gaze.
Erian saw the newcomer first. A huge moorhound,
loping easily, as if on a routine hunt, came toward
him. The dog’s head hung low, swinging patiently
from side to side in rhythm with his long, surprisingly
fleet, strides. His yellow eyes searched among a
thousand wolves on the ruined farm. Finally the gaze
locked with Erian’s.
Erian did not feel fear—although the dog was even
bigger than the wolf Erian had slain to take the leadership
of the Pack, Erian himself was still bigger. And
the Darkwell-bred wolf knew that no normal weapon,
no mortal flesh, could strike a wound into his hide.
Still, there was something strange and unnatural
in this hound’s singleminded determination. Already
the werewolf could hear the creature’s deep and rumbling
growl and see its shaggy hackles bristle menacingly.
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18
THE ATTACK
RAIN LASHED THE town and its gathered armies
throughout most of the night, fading to mist several
hours before dawn. The perimeter of each force
was marked by a ring of blazing fires, creating pockets
of life in the miserable night.
Tristan walked uneasily from fire to fire along the
town wall, leading Avalon by the reins. He knew that
it was nearly dawn, but no streak of light penetrated
the overcast sky.
“Good morning, my prince,” greeted a young manat-
arms as the prince walked up to the fire. A dozen
of his fellows all nodded a greeting, and Tristan saw
that not one of them was old enough to grow a beard.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” he answered. I need to
warm up a bit.”
“Do you think they will attack?” asked one youth,
his voice cracking.
“Probably, Are you ready?” responded Tristan.
The youths nodded seriously, and most of them
looked into the misty night as if they could see the
northmen assembling. Tristan wondered if they
knew how acutely dangerous their position actually
was. The town wall, varying from four to six feet
370
high, would create only a minor obstacle for the
attacking raiders. And once they breached the wall,
the fall of the town would follow shortly.
He walked on, stopping to chat briefly at each fire.
He wondered if his presence really did anything to
bolster the fighters’ morale.
Finally, he reached the south gate. This was a crucial
point, since the largest body of northmen was
massed beyond it. Daryth and Keren stood at the
gate itself, looking up soberly as the prince
approached.
“How does it look?” asked Tristan.
“We’re doing all right,” said Daryth, looking
around. “But a lot of these people don’t have much
spirit for battle. I’m not optimistic about stopping
them here.”
“There are no more troops I can give you,” admitted
the prince. “So do what you can.”
“Where’s Robyn?” asked the Calishite.
“In the castle. I haven’t seen her since she talked to
the king right after our return.”
“You sound worried. Do you think something’s
wrong?”
“I am worried,” the prince admitted. “But I can’t do
much about it now.”
“We’ll laugh about this come winter,” said Daryth,
clasping the prince by the shoulder and looking him
in the eyes.
“I certainly hope you’re right.” Tristan returned the
gesture, and then swung into the saddle of his stallion.
“See you at daybreak!”
As Avalon trotted up the street, the prince noticed
a crowd sitting or lying upon the ground around
Friar Nolan’s chapel. The prince dismounted and
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Dawn came slowly on this windswept morning.
Faint light, diffused by the heavy overcast, gradually
replaced the darkness. Even after the sun rose, however,
the day remained very dark. Occasionally, a
sharp spatter of rain would lash downward from the
clouds, but most of the time the glowering overcast
just threatened.
* * * * *
Grunnarch watched Thelgaar Ironhand pace
around the fire, whirling in agitation to pace in the
opposite direction. The Iron King behaved very
strangely. Grunnarch had heard rumors, in the hours
since he had joined the army at Corwell, of Ironhand
plucking arrows from his body with impunity. Eyewitnesses
swore that there was no way his longship
could have survived the inferno in Corwell harbor
and emerged without so much as a scorched board.
The kings and lords of the northmen slowly
assembled around the high fire. The sky was still
inky black, but Grunnarch sensed that dawn was
near. Laric, ignoring his own king, strode arrogantly
past the group to stand beside Thelgaar Ironhand.
The Iron King looked around, staring at each of his
lieutenants. Grunnarch felt a numbing sensation of
terror as that gaze passed over his own, and he
forced himself to look away.
.”We will attack at first light,” stated Thelgaar. “We
will hit the south and east gates, making a feint
against the north gate.
“I want the men of Norheim to strike to the south.
Grunnarch, the men of Norland will attack from the
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entered the building, noticing that all of the people
gathered here had been wounded.
Within, he found a floor covered with miserable
humanity, as a hundred Ffolk, the seriously
wounded, lay everywhere in this makeshift hospital.
The prince saw, but did not call to, Nolan. The stout
cleric was covered with sweat, his shiny crown
reflecting the light from the many windows. His
arms, to the elbows, were red with the blood of the
wounded.
Slowly, Tristan left the chapel and remounted
Avalon. The day was still black. He tried to focus his
mind on the battle, but he kept remembering the
hospital and the wounded. The warrior’s death
should be a clean, precise thing, thought the prince
angrily. Why were there so many ugly problems?
Next he visited Lord Mayor Dinsmore at the west
gate. The mayor commanded this section of the
defense, which included much of his militia, as well
as Finellen’s dwarves. The mayor had readily agreed
when Tristan suggested that the dwarves should
guard the gate.
On the north wall, the situation looked more
encouraging, if only because of Gavin’s presence. The
big smith had deployed his company of easterners
along the wall, and grouped a strong reserve by the
gate.
“Let ’em come,” was the blacksmith’s response to
Tristan’s report. After his tour, Tristan moved the
Sisters of Synnoria from their position in the central
square closer to the south gate. Although the large
and heavy horses would have difficulty maneuvering
in the enclosed streets of Corwell, they were the
prince’s last recourse in the event of a breakthrough.
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onto the defenders. The Calishite’s scimitar disemboweled
the attacker, but another took his place. This
time the strike of Daryth’s blade sent him falling
backward into the mass of his fellows.
All along the length of the wall, steel clashed
against steel, and flesh strove against flesh. Many
northmen fell during the initial charge, but once they
reached the wall, the toll of dead came quickly from
both attacker and defender.
A man fell beside Daryth, and several northmen
poured over the wall. He turned to face them, his
silver scimitar flickering like lightning into the
group, cutting off an arm on a fore-swing, and slicing
a neck on the recovery.
“Look out!” the bard called from behind Daryth.
The Calishite turned to see a spear-carrying northman
poised upon the wall, ready to drive his spear
into Daryth’s back. Before he could throw the
weapon, however, he gasped and toppled back over
the wall, one of Keren’s arrows jutting from his
throat,
But the attackers’ numbers were just too high.
More and more defenders fell, mortally wounded, or
simply turned and ran from the onslaught. Hundreds
of raiders poured through the breaches in the
walls.
“I think we’d better retreat,” grunted Daryth, holding
off three northmen with his flashing blade.
Keren, now wielding his sword, backed against the
Calishite as he fought two more northmen. Already,
the two of them stood virtually alone among the sea
of enemy fighters.
“Now!” cried Keren, finishing his opponent with a
lightning thrust. “This way!”
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east.” Groth the Firbolg grunted something in his
bestial tongue. The giant, a dirty bandage around
his thigh and dirty stains upon his person and
crude tunic, looked foul even by the northmen’s
standards. Thelgaar spit some phrases back at the
Firbolg in his own tongue, and Groth turned away
from the fire, sulking.
“You will all have the chance to fight!” said Thelgaar,
his eyes lingering on Laric. “The attacks to the
south and the east will force them from the town.
When they try to reach the castle, the Bloodriders
and my own legion will destroy them!”
* * * * *
A ragged, bloodthirsty yell rose from the length of
the raiders’ position, and the thousands of northmen
hurled themselves against Corwell Town.
At the south gate, Daryth and Keren exchanged
quick glances of apprehension, for the greatest
volume of the noise seemed to come from directly
before them.
“Remember,” said Daryth wryly, as a ferocious
horde of northmen charged from the mist, “we’re supposed
to do what we can!”
Keren grinned, but did not respond. Drawing his
bow with mechanical efficiency, he sent arrow after
arrow soaring into the charging mass. Several dozen
other archers also inflicted losses upon the raiders,
but the missile fire did not seem to slow the attack.
Seconds after the charge began, Daryth faced a
yellow-bearded berserker who leaped from the
ground to the top of the four-foot wall, then dived
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* * * * *
Canthus watched the great wolf race toward him
without fear. He ignored the ruined cantrev and the
thousand wolves watching him with yellow-eyed
stares. Never before had the moorhound hesitated to
face danger, nor did he do so now.
The wolves of the Pack felt neither hope nor
dismay for the outcome of the fight—they would
always follow the mightiest of their number.
As the wolf and the dog came together, Erian
hurled his body through the air in an effort to knock
his opponent to the ground. Any other dog would
have been flattened by the leap, but Canthus managed
to swerve to the side a split second before collision.
Drooling fangs lashed at each other as they
passed, but neither struck home.
Stopping and whirling quickly, they crashed
together as each sought to sink sharp teeth into the
other’s neck. Their heads thrust like swords, and
their chests pressed together. Back legs still churned
the creatures forward, so their heads and forelegs
gradually rose from the ground until they stood, as if
wrestling, on hind legs alone.
Now the greater weight of Erian asserted itself,
and Canthus tumbled backward. Somehow the
moorhound managed to flip away, springing before
his foe’s drooling jaws found their mark.
For a second the two animals regarded each other.
Each curled his upper lip back to display many
white, pointed teeth. And then they crashed together
again.
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Daryth lunged once, throwing his opponents off
balance, and then turned to race after the longlegged
bard. They darted through the mass of the
enemy, dodging attacks, or slaying those who stood in
their way.
“I didn’t know we got left so far behind,” panted
Daryth, as a dozen northmen suddenly appeared to
block their path.
“Behind!” cried Keren, turning back to face an
equal number.
Their bloodstained weapons upraised, the northmen
closed upon the two defenders, caught far from
their own troops. None of them heard the clatter of
approaching hooves.
Suddenly a silver blade dropped between Daryth
and the enemy, and he looked up to see the Prince of
Corwell ride into the fray. The heavy hooves of the
white stallion Avalon, and the slashing cuts made by
the Sword of Cymrych Hugh, killed three northmen
in the first rush, and warned the others off.
“Over here! Run!” Tristan gestured to Daryth and
Keren with his sword. The pair saw the Sisters of
Synnoria advancing behind the prince and quickly
ducked between the nervous white horses.
They saw that their respite was a brief one, for
the few knights—brave as the elven women were—
could not hold back the press of raiders for long. As
soon as the fighters were safe, the knights fell back,
holding the fanatical attackers at bay with the tips
of their lances. The crush of the onslaught slowly
forced them back through the town square, and the
defenders were cornered in the northern end of the
town.
And still, the enemy kept pushing.
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* * * * *
“We’ve got to try and break out!” announced Tristan,
after he had finally caught Brigit’s attention and
joined her in a desperate attempt to form a plan.
With the south wall breached, the town rapidly fell
into the hands of the enemy. Ffolk of the militia
fought bravely, defending each house, cottage, and
shop, but the northmen could not be stopped. Unless
they could reach the safety of the castle, the entire
force, Tristan knew, faced annihilation.
Already the corner of the town held by the Ffolk
was crowded with people. The prince could sense
emotions rising to panic, and knew that they must
try something, however desperate, immediately.
“I’ll gather the sisters,” agreed Brigit. She nodded
to a knight, visor down, who rode up to her. “Pass any
further orders through Aileen.”
The knight lifted her visor, and Tristan suppressed
a gasp of shock at Aileen’s gaunt, pale visage. Still,
she held her head high, and met his gaze evenly.
“Take word to Gavin at the north gate—tell him
we’re going to attempt to reach the castle. The sisters
will lead the way, and his company is to follow!”
Nodding, Aileen galloped up the street. The prince,
with one more order to give, rode off to find the
mayor. He first encountered Friar Nolan, leading a
caravan of stretcher-bearers up the street. The cleric
turned toward Tristan.
“The butchers!” he cried with a steely, murderous
look upon his face. “They broke into the hospital—it
was a massacre!”
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This time Erian leaped upward, to come down
upon the great moorhound and bear him to earth.
Twisting, Canthus managed to deflect the wolf’s bite
from his throat to his shoulder. Even so, he could not
suppress a yelp of agony.
The pain gave him a momentary burst of adrenalin,
and he sprang free from the heavy wolf. Even as
he turned to face his opponent again, however, Canthus’s
wounded shoulder failed to support his
weight, and he stumbled.
The blood drove the werewolf into a frenzy, and he
leaped forward with little caution. Canthus slipped
to the side easily, and then repeated the evasion as
Erian made several more frantic attacks. Soon the
big wolf calmed himself, and closed in with more precise
menace.
Noticing that Canthus was forced to treat the
injured shoulder with care, the wolf continued to
feint attacks, forcing the hound to leap out of the way
again and again. The many evasions began to sap
Canthus’s strength, and each time he leaped he felt
pain lance his foreleg.
Finally, the unnatural wolf pressed his attack
home. He charged, and twisted, and rushed to
follow each of Canthus’s evasive maneuvers, forcing
the dog into more and more desperate leaps and
dodges.
And then the wounded shoulder collapsed, and
Canthus tumbled to the ground. The spawn of the
Beast dove upon him triumphantly before the
hound could begin to twist free. The force of the
heavy body drove the dog’s breath from his lungs.
Before he could inhale, the bloody fangs of the
werewolf closed upon his throat.
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Gavin raised his hammer, and a hundred archers
sprang from cover to send a shower of arrows into
the northmen gathered at the north gate. He had
stripped bowmen from every other portion of the
perimeter to raise this concentration, but it proved
effective.
The raiders’ attack on the north gate, already listless,
broke into panic as dozens of raiders fell dead
from the rain of missiles. Those that remained could
find no shelter, and as their companions continued to
fall, they turned and bolted for the safety of their
own lines.
“They’re running,” called Gavin, after leaping to
the wall. “Go!”
Eager hands pushed the wide oaken gates apart,
and the column of knights raced from the town. Tristan
and Brigit slowed after they emerged, allowing
the others to fill out the line to either side. In line
abreast, the Sisters of Synnoria charged.
The area immediately before the gates had been
cleared by the archers, and they raced among the
bodies of many dead northmen. As they reached
the limits of bow range, small bands of raiders
stood to oppose them. The lances of the knights,
and the hooves of the steeds, turned each of these
groups into piles of bloody corpses.
Quickly, the northmen realized that they could not
stand against the charge of the heavy cavalry, and
they began to flee from the sisters’ path. Tristan
risked a quick look behind and saw Gavin leading his
company from the gate to protect the ground captured
in the charge. His heart soared with excitement
as he saw the raiders fleeing in panic before
them, opening the path to the castle.
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The cleric looked very gravely at the prince. “These
men are driven by something far more evil than their
own nature.”
“I know,” replied the prince simply. Then he added,
“We shall try to reach the castle. Bring your wounded
into a column, and we’ll try to cover them.”
He rode on, watching the column form up behind
the north gate, and he soon found Lord Mayor Dinsmore.
To Tristan’s surprise, the mayor was covered
with the sweat and dust of battle. His ridiculous
helmet actually displayed a deep gash, where it had
apparently saved his life.
“We have to get out of here,” Tristan told him. “The
knights will open a path to the castle. I want your
militia to serve as a rear guard.”
The mayor’s eyes widened in surprise, but he
thought for a moment before responding, and seemed
to realize that this was their only hope. “As you
wish,” he agreed, looking at the prince with his
watery eyes. “Tell me when to go.”
“We’ll charge out of the north gate in five minutes.
Gavin will follow, protecting the weaker citizens. As
soon as everyone’s out, you follow, holding the raiders
away from the rear of the column.”
“Excellent plan!” said the mayor enthusiastically.
Avalon next carried Tristan to the north gate. He
found the sister knights already assembled in a long
column, ready to charge through the portal the
moment it opened. Seizing a lance, the prince took a
place beside Brigit at the front of the column.
“Are you ready, my prince?” Gavin asked, standing
to the side with his heavy hammer resting easily
upon his shoulder.
“Let’s go,” Tristan answered.
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hacking with their cruel swords.
A minute later, the Riders were still hacking,
though little besides blood now lay on the ground
beneath them.
As the black horses carried their Riders around the
sister knights, Laric smiled grimly to see the momentum
of the enemy’s charge broken. The white horses
swerved in confusion as the knights tried to restore
some order to their line. Thelgaar’s legion of northmen,
Laric could now see, attacked the rear of the
column, driving to shut it off from the north gate and
the dubious shelter of the town.
The Bloodriders swept across the front of the
charge, forcing the knights to turn. In minutes, the
path to the castle had been securely closed again.
“We have them!” exulted Laric. The enemy was
trapped!
And then a wayward breeze wafted a familiar scent
past Laric’s decaying nostrils, and the fire surged in
his eyes.
She lived! With a sweet rush of pleasure, he sensed
that the knight he had nearly slain was now within
the formation. Like her companions, she was caught
in the trap.
Finally, she would be his.
* * * * *
Robyn walked slowly from the cool gray gloom of
her bedroom through the hallways of Caer Corwell.
She had awakened, feeling a vague, unidentified concern.
As she stepped from her bed, her legs nearly
failed her, but soon she could walk.
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He did not see disaster approaching from the right
until it was too late.
* * * * *
Laric had been waiting many days for just such an
opportunity. The black and threatening skies of this
day had seemed a fitting omen. Patiently, standing
with the Bloodriders, he waited through the morning
hours in the shelter of a small grove of trees north of
the town. If the Ffolk attempted to break out, as
seemed very likely given the battle in the town, he
knew that the silver knights would lead the charge.
And the Bloodriders would be waiting.
Finally they got their chance. The sweeping
charge of the white horses sent raiders scurrying
before them, or falling dead in their tracks. Closer
they rumbled, but still Laric delayed. He wanted his
attack to surprise, and would not advertise the
presence of his company by breaking from the trees
prematurely.
But now the time was right, and he spurred the
great black horse forward. Behind him thundered
the rest of his troop, racing toward the right wing of
the sisters’ line. The knights passed so close to the
trees that the Bloodriders struck them before any of
them saw the threat.
Laric saw one Bloodrider strike the head from a
sister knight, and felt the resulting rush of power
infuse the troop. One of the white horses fell heavily,
knocked to the ground by the crush of the attacking
Riders. In seconds, a dozen of the ghoulish horsemen
had leaped upon the immobilized horse and rider,
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rying his rider from one foe to another. Many Bloodriders
felt the keen bite of the prince’s blade. But still
they swarmed, more thickly than ever, and he knew
there would be no breaking through to the castle.
Avalon whirled and the prince saw that retreat
back to the north gate was blocked by charging
northmen. Gavin, at the front of his company, swung
his massive hammer through a deadly pattern. The
smith had cleared a wide area around himself, but
beyond that circle the Ffolk fell under the attacks of
the savage raiders.
Nearby, Tristan saw a knight dragged from the
saddle by the press of northmen on foot. The sister
vanished into a slashing maelstrom of swords, axes,
maces, and spears.
Suddenly a crimson robe flashed past the prince,
borne by a streak of black. One of the Bloodriders
was dashing among the knights, ignoring most and
seemingly seeking one victim in particular. Suddenly
Tristan realized that the target must be the one
knight who was not looking at the crazed menace.
Aileen.
Avalon sensed Tristan’s command, leaping toward
the charging Rider. The macabre figure turned and
raised his sword. With a shock, Tristan recognized
the Bloodrider who had momentarily captured
Aileen earlier at Freeman’s Down.
His enemy seemed to share the memory, for a
ghastly grin split his horrible face, and he reined in
to meet the prince’s charge. Vowing to slay the creature,
Tristan slashed the Sword of Cymrych Hugh
savagely downward toward the grinning deathmask,
as all the horror and rage in Tristan’s body
unleashed itself in that one blow.
DARKWALKER ON MOONSHAE
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She felt herself grow stronger with each step, and
then realizing that she carried her mother’s staff, she
leaned on it for support. Dimly, she wondered what
had happened to the world outside her room while
she had read the book.
Some great purpose prodded at her, but she could
not fathom its nature. The book . . . it had given her
many clues, but little direct knowledge.
The goddess smiled upon Robyn, and held her
arms open for the young woman. Falling into the
embrace, Robyn continued to walk blindly through
the hallway as the goddess spoke to her.
Unknowingly, Robyn opened a door and began to
climb the steep and winding stairway leading to the
high tower. All the while, the goddess comforted and
instructed her. She dried Robyn’s tears, and hugged
her when she wept for her mother, and supported
her body when it might have slipped upon the
stairs.
But mostly, she convinced Robyn that, within her
mortal flesh, lay the power of the immortal earth.
The druid within her needed confidence and
wisdom for her task. For Robyn already possessed
the strength.
* * * * *
The clouds pressed, black and menacing, over the
battlefield. Gusty winds whipped through the air,
lashing waves onto the shore of the firth. The wind
churned the clouds as if trying to match the violence
on the ground below.
Avalon leaped and kicked through the melee, car-
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falling to earth. The others pressed him back, but his
weapon clashed and clanged against a succession of
enemy blades. He swung wildly, striking the head off
another Rider, but the attacks still forced him back.
The Bloodrider who had killed Aileen sprang away
like a flickering shadow, and the prince lost sight of
him. He found other opponents, and fought them
mechanically. He caught a glimpse of Gavin, with
perhaps half his company remaining, fighting a desperate
battle against the surrounding horde of northmen.
The town militia fought bravely but was
trapped against the town wall.
The clouds boiled and twisted overhead, and thunder
rumbled across the battlefield like a funeral
dirge. It did not seem possible for such a black and
threatening sky to yield no rain, but the air
remained dry.
Tristan joined Brigit, as the sister and her proud
gelding struck down one after another of the raiders
who charged, on foot, toward the knights. As Brigit’s
flashing longsword lifted the head of one raider from
the man’s shoulders, another of the northmen swung
a monstrous battle-axe.
The gelding twisted from the blow, protecting its
mistress, but the vicious axe sliced into the horse’s
unprotected loins. The horse screamed its death cry
as its entrails spilled onto the ground, then collapsed
into the gory mess.
Brigit managed to unbuckle her belt as the horse
fell. The sister knight sprang free, then crashed to
the ground, stunned. A dozen raiders, bloody
weapons upraised, sprang toward her.
And then the air exploded in sound and fire. The
springing northmen were outlined in flame against
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And the blow whistled harmlessly through the air,
for the Rider had used a simple feint to dodge the
prince. As Tristan struggled to regain his balance, he
saw his enemy’s black stallion crash into Osprey. The
creature held his longsword in his heavy gauntlet,
extended toward Aileen’s armored back.
The point of the sword split the silver armor, causing
it to fall away. Then, it cut mercilessly through
the soft body beneath it. The Bloodrider struck with
such force that the tip of his sword burst through the
front of the hapless knight’s body and breastplate.
And as the sister died, the creature that had killed
her threw back his head and howled—a high, piercing
cry that bounced from the black clouds and
echoed across the bloody field. Blue flame flickered
around the outline of the Rider’s body and the length
of his sword. Tristan saw the skin of Aileen’s back
shrivel and fall away, and then the flesh, until only
white bone remained.
The howl of the Bloodrider grew to an awesome
pitch, until finally, the gruesome horseman gave a
casual flick of his sword, throwing the lifeless hulk to
the ground.
Tristan’s nerves froze, and the knowledge came,
in a flood of painful knowledge that his foolishness
in taking the Rider’s feint had led to Aileen’s death.
Unconsciously, he retched.
A wave of hatred rushed over him, and he forgot
his despair in the single-minded desire to slay the
murderous Rider. Avalon sprang forward, and the
silver sword reached for its victim, but a group of
Bloodriders charged in to block his path.
He stabbed one, watching in satisfaction as the
creature’s mouth gasped silently for a moment before
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Erian snarled in triumph as he felt the moorhound’s
neck between his jaws. The spikes of the iron collar
bent and snapped against the crushing power of the
wolf’s bite. Finally, the collar itself snapped and fell
to the ground . . .
. . . baring the soft, thin torque of silver.
A flash of fight and fire burst outward from the
torque, singeing the inside of Erian’s mouth. With a
startled cry, he sprang backward. Rage fogged his
vision. His tongue felt as if it had been seared by
flame.
Canthus lunged at his foe, unaffected by the blazing
wounds around his neck. The great werewolf was still
shaking his head in pain, choking as if trying to spit
out a sliver of bone. This time the moorhound’s teeth
found flesh. The power of the goddess surged through
those teeth as they tore off an ear and punctured a
red, glowing eye.
The wolf cringed backward, yelping, but Canthus
turned without mercy and bit the monster in the
shoulder, driving it to the ground Then his widespread
jaws flicked forward and he buried his teeth
in the soft flesh of the werewolf’s neck.
Canthus felt his teeth tear skin and flesh, and he
tasted salty blood pumping through his mouth. He
heard the rush of air as his murderous bite finally cut
the great beast’s windpipe.
The wolf sagged, finally collapsing completely, but
the great hound held the even greater body aloft by
the neck.
Canthus looked around, wondering what would
happen next.
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darkness, and then they fell, black and dead. A hundred
others were knocked senseless by the force of
the blast.
Again the explosion ripped through the air, and
this time Tristan discerned its source. White lightning
erupted from the heaving clouds, horribly burning
another group of northmen before him. The force
of aroused nature crackled again, leaving a third
circle of blackened corpses in its wake.
Instinctively, Tristan looked toward the castle,
high above. Silhouetted against the dark sky atop
the parapet of the high tower was an even darker
shape. From the figure, a black robe whipped sideways
from the force of the wind, and a long ribbon of
black hair waved like a pennant. The prince smiled
as he discerned Robyn, holding the Staff of the White
Well over her head, and gesturing toward the battlefield.
The black clouds spit another deadly bolt, and
panic began to spread through the ranks of northmen
as the fighters turned to watch the crackling
attacks. Soon the northmen saw the pattern and fled
in panic from the path.
And so the lightning crashed, upon the shore, and
the moor, and the castle road. It splintered great
chunks of the ground, blistering turf, and slaying any
northmen foolish enough not to flee.
In minutes, the road to Caer Corwell lay open.
* * * * *
A thousand wolves sat, immobile, in a great circle,
staring intently at the duel for mastery of the Pack.
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19
BESIEGED
LARIC STARED UP at the tiny figure, poised on the
brink of the tower so far away. Strong and arrogant,
he throbbed with the vitality of the sister
knight whose life he had extinguished.
Yet now that knight was forgotten, a mere morsel
in comparison to the fresh strength now emanating
from the woman on the parapet. His hot, liquid sockets
fixed their gaze upon the black robe and flowing
black hair. Hunger surged within him, forcing the
memory of his recent repast from his mind.
That one, he vowed, cracking his blackening lips
into a wide smile, he would have. Could he but slake
his thirst with her blood, Laric knew his own
strength might grow to match that of the Beast itself.
* * * * *
Kazgoroth, too, looked at the tiny figure on the distant
tower, and the body of Thelgaar Ironhand
twitched with mindless rage. Only with great concentration
and effort did the Beast prevent its real
body from emerging. Hatred inflamed the Beast’s
mind, and gave it determination for vengeance.
390
This human would die in Kazgoroth’s own clutches.
Still, the Beast’s inherent caution warned it
against a rash attack. The human must be a druid,
for she had great command over the forces of the goddess.
Kazgoroth knew even Genna. Moonsinger,
Great Druid of the isle, could not match such a display
of magic.
This new druid required caution.
Thelgaar Ironhand left the rest of the battle to his
underlings, and disappeared into his tent to plan.
* * * * *
Looking down from the gatehouse, Tristan saw the
raiders plunder Corwell Town. The army lay like a
great blight upon the pastoral view he had known all
his life.
The rearguard had almost reached longbow range.
The Lord Mayor stood in the middle of the fray, surrounded
by the loyal men of his militia. His brown
horse, apparently, had fallen.
As the archers unleashed their first volley, the
thrust of a northman’s sword cut the mayor, and he
fell to the road. Tristan saw the rotund little man
struggle to his knees, but then the raiders surrounded
him and his body disappeared. Several
seconds later, arrows from the castle walls began to
fall into the raiders. They turned and fled, leaving
the militia to enter the castle unhindered.
Sickened, Tristan watched the last Ffolk enter
the castle, and heard the great oaken gates thud
solidly shut. Suddenly seized by the need to see
Robyn, Tristan turned from the battlefield and
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the new druid’s eyes. “Are you hurt?”
“No. I’m just very exhausted. That was not my
power that called the lightning down. It came from
the staff, through me, but it seemed to drain me as
well.” She looked sadly at the ashwood rod. “I fear
that its might has been expended. Still, it served
very well!”
“You have given us the chance to persevere!”
exclaimed Tristan, trying to cheer her. “We can
remain within the castle for months, and even if we
don’t drive them off, the coming of winter shall!”
She smiled sadly, easily penetrating his bravado. “I
fear for their attack. They are still very mighty.” For
a brief moment, her composure slipped, and she
looked like a small, frightened child. “Tristan, hold
me!”
He gathered her in his arms, and pressed her to
him. For a minute, she shivered uncontrollably, but
then, slowly, she calmed. She turned her face toward
his ear.
“I love you,” she .
All of Tristan’s concerns vanished in his joy at her
words. He held her close, and imagined peaceful days
in the future, when they would be together always.
The moment suddenly vanished as a insistent tapping
came at the door. Robyn sighed, but she relaxed
her hold as the prince stood.
Tristan opened the door to reveal Friar Nolan, who
nodded politely at him and then looked curiously at
Robyn. The cleric’s wide eyes were soft with concern,
although lines of weariness had carved themselves
into his face. His hands were chapped and raw, but a
clean robe covered any other signs of battle.
“Pardon the intrusion,” said the cleric, as he
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hurried into the castle.
Outside of her door he hesitated, and then knocked
softly at the heavy oaken boards. For seconds he
heard nothing, and then came the faint invitation to
enter.
Slowly he pushed the door open. For a moment he
could not see Robyn—only a huge mound of a bed,
opposite the narrow window.
Robyn’s pillow and heavy quilts swelled around
her, seemingly smothering the bed. The maiden in
the middle of it all looked very, very small.
Her black hair, lying in a shiny black cloud across
the great pillow, accentuated the exceptional pallor
of her skin. Her green eyes seemed to have sunk
deep within her head, and dark circles marred her
cheeks.
But she smiled at him, and that lit up the room.
Tristan rushed to the bed and knelt, wrapping his
arms around her. For a long moment the two friends
who had been through so much held each other.
Then, the prince lifted his head and brushed back a
thick tress of Robyn’s black hair. He leaned forward
to kiss her, and she pulled him to her lips eagerly.
After long moments during which the world stopped,
they broke apart.
They each saw that the other was short of breath,
and they laughed together.
Robyn’s face turned somber. “I thought I’d never
see you again,” she whispered.
“If not for your magic, you wouldn’t have—nor
would anyone else.” Tristan saw the Staff of the
White Well beside her bed and silently thanked
the goddess for it.
The prince touched the circles of weariness under
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Leaving Robyn’s room, the prince suddenly became
acutely aware of the great weariness that had crept
into his body. Still, he had one last, unpleasant task
to perform before retiring. He had already postponed
it for too long. He would have to talk to his father, the
king.
He walked ponderously to his father’s study,
knocked once on the door, and entered. The great
fire blazed on the hearth, and his father still lay
upon the long couch. He looked up, expressionlessly,
as the prince entered.
“I’m glad you could finally find the time to report,”
said the king.
“I had to see Robyn.” The prince was determined
not to let his father bully him.
“Indeed. From what I hear, you owe her your life.”
“I know that! Everyone in that town owes her their
life!”
“If you had evacuated the place, like I ordered—”
“Dammit, Father, I tried! We lost one company—all
of Dynnatt’s men—and the goddess knows how many
more before the northmen cut us off!”
His father closed his eyes, as if struggling to regain
his patience. Tristan seethed, but he kept his mouth
shut.
“So what have you accomplished since returning to
the castle?”
“Not one thing! I saw that the last of the column
from the town had reached safety, then I went to
Robyn. I will see to the defenses at first light.”
“My son! Listen to me!” His father spoke with a
strange urgency. “Your presence on the walls and
towers is very important! You must be seen, and you
must be in command!”
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entered. “I hope you are not too tired?”
“What do you want?” demanded Robyn.
“I can help protect you,” the cleric said simply. “You
realize, of course, that you have made of yourself a
very visible target.”
“This had not occurred to me,” replied Robyn.
“But, of course, you have. I am sure you are well
aware that our enemy is not—how shall I say?—not
entirely natural?”
“I am aware of that, yes.”
“I feel certain that the driving force behind this
evil will seek you out. I will stay here and help you
drive it off.”
“But if Robyn remains here, in her room . . . began
the prince.
Nolan cleared his throat pointedly, and nodded at
the window. Tristan walked over to it and looked out.
As he had known, it was fifty feet up that wall of the
keep which looked out over the courtyard within
Caer Corwell’s walls.
“I fear for you, my child,’ said the cleric. “We both
know that there is something dark and unnatural
about this enemy. I am not altogether certain that a
high window is enough of a safeguard.
“If you’ll allow me.” The stout cleric crossed to the
window. He muttered some mysterious phrases as he
passed his hands along the frame.
“I will stay here with you,” Nolan announced,
returning from the window to sit in a soft chair.
Robyn seemed ready to object, but when she looked
at the cleric’s face, she said nothing. If anything,
thought the prince, she looked slightly relieved.
Tristan rose to leave, squeezing Robyn’s hand in a
private gesture of farewell.
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except for the wings—was protected by a layer of tiny
scales.
The Beast flew toward Caer Corwell. The castle
stood out from the pitch darkness of the night like
an island of light. A hundred or more torches lined
the parapet upon the wooden palisade ringing the
fortress, and outlined the squat block of the keep
itself. High above the army of the northmen, the
castle remained a symbol of the Ffolk’s resistance.
Kazgoroth glided soundlessly through the air,
descending toward the broad courtyard. The black
body blended perfectly with the night, and none of
the sentries suspected its presence.
Circling about the keep, the Beast remained a hundred
feet in the air. The grotesque nostrils quivered
delicately, soon finding what they sought. Now the
Beast dove, veering toward the keep and centering
its dive toward a narrow window, high in the smooth
stone wall.
The druid, Kazgoroth sensed, slept in the room
beyond this window. Soon, reflected the Beast with a
drooling leer, she would sleep much more deeply. The
supple fingers, with their cruel claws, clenched and
flexed in eagerness. Tucking its wings at the last
moment, the Beast narrowed its body and dove into
the window.
Instantly the night exploded in crackling fire,
sending sparks of raw pain shooting through the
monster. Kazgoroth bounced from the protected
window, crashing heavily to the courtyard. Shouts of
alarm rang from the guards in the courtyard, but no
one saw the black shape near the keep.
A barrier! Rage flared through Kazgoroth as it
understood its own carelessness. Shaking its scaly
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“I will do this,” Tristan responded, trying unsuccessfully
to suppress his irritation. “Now, I’m going to
sleep.”
He left the study, slowly climbing the stairs to
the family living quarters. He walked silently down
the corridor toward his room, stopping outside of
Robyn’s door and leaning his ear toward the portal.
Hearing nothing, he walked on. The opening of his
own door brought awareness of an overwhelming
tiredness. It was all he could do to think of leaving
his door open a crack, and to place the Sword of Cymrych
Hugh upon a chair near his bed.
In another minute, he slept.
* * * * *
The serpent, tiny and black, slithered along the
ground, keeping always to shadow. All around it,
the rolling moor sparkled with the fires of the army
of northmen, but the small reptilian thing avoided
all contact with the raiders.
Soon it slipped through the picket line, leaving the
lighted region behind, Here, with none to see, Kazgoroth
grew and stood, stretching its flesh into a new
form, uniquely suited to this purpose. The Beast
sprouted great, leathery wings from its shoulders,
and reached forth long,muscular arms, tipped with a
multitude of taloned fingers.
The wide mouth gaped, displaying row upon row of
wickedly curved teeth and a long, forked tongue. A
flatnose, like a pig’s snout, separated two tiny but
intensely glowing eyes of fiery crimson. The head
was rounded and smooth, although the entire body—
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toward the Beasts drooling visage. His cold magic
surged through the circlet, forcing Kazgoroth back.
The man lay where the monster had pushed him, one
leg bent unnaturally to the side. Lines of horror and
pain stretched his face into a garish mask.
Kazgoroth spun to attack the druid. Robyn had
now left her bed and stood, staff held protectively
before her, against the wall. She leaned against it,
shivering. But her face betrayed no hint of frailty.
The Beast focused the energy of his eyes, compelling
her to stare into those orbs of fire and death,
but she resisted with impossible strength. Death
magic flashed from the monster, but the protective
shield of the staff dispersed it harmlessly throughout
the room.
The broken man lying upon the floor groaned, a
piteous wail of pain, and the druid looked at him
with obvious concern. For a split second she forgot
her opponent, and in that time Kazgoroth crossed
the room and snatched the staff from her hands. It
blazed against his grip with the white fire of the goddess.
The Beast felt the wood draw strength from its
body, but it ignored the pain and slammed the potent
rod to the floor.
Now the woman recoiled backward, eyes widening
as her talisman was torn from her. She shrank along
the wall, but with a casual push the Beast knocked
her into a corner. She lay stunned, moaning slightly
in fear, as the venomous tail again lashed toward her.
* * * * *
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head to clear it, the creature lumbered to its feet and
flapped its wings powerfully.
Kazgoroth leaped into the air again, soaring
quickly to the height of the druid’s room. This time
the Beast hovered outside for a moment, and saw the
magical barrier faintly crisscrossing the window.
Sneering at its limited scope, he dove against the
granite wall of the keep.
An explosion of rock and dust tumbled into the
room, with the monster in its midst. Kazgoroth shook
itself, rising to its feet in the center of the room, and
looked around. The druid, starkly beautiful in her
terror, sat up in the bed.
The toothy jaws gaped in a reptilian smile, and the
venomous tail flickered toward the maiden’s unarmored
breast. From somewhere, she pulled a plain
staff across herself, and the Beast cursed the earthen
power of the wood.
A force of cold power smashed into the Beast from
the side, sending it lurching into, and almost
through, the window. With a lightning grab of its
muscular arms, Kazgoroth caught itself by the
window-frame, and heaved itself across the room,
into the squat form of the man it now saw there. The
two large bodies crashed into the floor, and the Beast
felt the man’s bones snap and splinter.
But the man blazed with a strength that was new
to the Beast, after its long centuries of battle with
the goddess. The man’s harsh magic was powerful,
even if it could not master the hot, fiery might of the
Darkwell.
Kazgoroth’s claws snaked into the cleric’s face,
leaving long and bloody gashes. But somehow the
man raised a potent silver circlet and pressed it
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the scaly surface and bony frame of the serpentine
tail. The Beast howled in pain and stumbled backward,
clutching at the stump of its mangled tail.
Robyn shrieked instinctively as the dismembered tip
dropped onto the floor, twitching reflexively. Overcome
with shock, she collapsed in the corner.
The prince turned to face the snarling monster,
and for the first time saw the grotesque features of
the Beast. But even as he watched, the monster’s
great rage seemed to cause its face and body to bend
and shift, changing shape before Tristan’s astonished
eyes.
He thrust with the gleaming sword, and saw that
the monster recoiled in fear. The blade, on the other
hand, compelled the prince to attack the creature
mercilessly, driving it ever backward.
Finally, with a parting snarl, the Beast leaped
through the hole in the wall and soared into the
night. Though the sword nearly pulled the prince
through the same aperture in an attempt to pursue,
Tristan could not see the black shape for more than a
second after it had escaped into the darkness.
He sprang to Robyn’s side and lifted her head from
the floor as Keren carried a torch through the broken
door. With relief, he saw that the maiden breathed,
although all of the color had left her skin.
“Help me carry her to the bed,” he asked, as the
bard knelt beside him. Together, they made the druid
as comfortable as possible, then turned toward the
unconscious cleric. Streaks of blood ran from the
deep claw marks across the cleric’s face, but at least
the attack had missed his eyes. His left leg jutted
sideways at an odd angle, and the prince knew that
the bone was broken.
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Tristan awoke, slowly, as always. He shook his
head and sat up in bed, wondering why he no longer
slept. Vaguely, he recalled some sense of purpose
when he went to bed, as if there was something he
was supposed to remember.
He suddenly heard a groan from the hallway, and
his body tensed with energy as he suddenly recalled
the threat to Robyn.
Suddenly he felt the Sword of Cymrych Hugh calling
to him from its position on the chair. The sword,
always bright against a dark night, now glowed with
an intensity that shone brilliantly through the
leather scabbard. Tristan saw, or imagined he saw,
the sword vibrating with excitement, calling him to
battle with a voice that tugged inaudibly at his will.
Instantly he sprang from the bed. The sword
seemed to leap from the scabbard into his hand. He
burst into the hall, and the sword tugged him toward
Robyn’s bedchamber. Only with great difficulty did
he retain his grip on the smooth hilt.
Together, Tristan and the Sword of Cymrych Hugh
crashed through the door of Robyn’s room. The blazing
white light from the weapon threw the entire
room into a stark contrast of light and shadow. As the
door fell inward, the prince saw the broken form of
Friar Nolan, and he saw Robyn’s staff glowing on the
floor amid the rubble blasted away from a gaping
hole in the wall.
Then, in the far corner, he saw the hideous body of
the Beast crouching over a shapeless form on the
floor. Tristan saw the barbed tip of the monster’s tail
lashing toward the motionless Robyn.
In a blur of movement the sword pulled him across
the room and sliced unerringly downward, through
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and his home. He grew lonely for the men, and the
woman, who were his.
He sniffed the air, ignoring the scent of the ravaged
farm, and of the gathering crows and other scavengers.
He sought the scent of his home. For long
minutes he studied the horizon.
Finally, served by some mysterious animal instinct
that pointed him in the right direction, he walked
slowly toward the south. The journey, he felt, would
be a long one, and his shoulder had not healed
entirely, so the hound would travel slowly, only
breaking into his patient lope when he felt stronger.
A thousand wolves watched their new leader walk
from the desolation of the farm. The animals dropped
the meat and bones they had been gnawing, and
moved from the surrounding hills. As one column,
they fell in behind Canthus.
* * * * *
For a week, the army of the northmen bustled
about in the town, and across the moor below the
castle. Much to Tristan’s surprise, they did not burn
Corwell Town as they had the eastern cantrevs.
Apparently the raiders preferred instead to usurp
the buildings of the town as quarters during the
siege.
At night, the enemy’s campfires spread across the
moors in all directions, for the town was large
enough to shelter only a small fraction of the army.
During the day, the defenders could see tall frameworks
take shape, out of range of bowfire from the
castle walls, and they knew that the attackers were
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The bard splashed a little water upon the cleric’s
brow, and his eyes flickered open. Wincing in pain,
the wounded cleric reached downward and adjusted
the bone of the broken leg, muttering a mysterious
prayer to his gods. Then, to the astonishment of Tristan
and Keren, he stood and walked solidly to
Robyn’s bed. Her long black eyelashes fluttered
upward as his strong palm rested upon her forehead.
“There, my child,” he said softly. “Your strength
prevailed when it was most crucial. Now sleep.”
Robyn stared at the cleric, and the prince, and the
bard, and shrunk more deeply into her quilt. The
prince laid the Staff of the White Well beside her, and
then selected a chair. Keren did the same, while
Nolan took his original seat, reflexively caressing his
small silver circlet—the sign of his gods.
For the rest of the night, Robyn slept while the
three men stayed restlessly awake and guarded her.
They held sword, circlet, and harp, ready to drive
back the darkness again.
But it did not return that night.
* * * * *
Canthus turned curiously, watching the thousands
of wolfish eyes return his stare from every
point of vantage within a mile. The wolves made no
move to attack, however, so the moorhound ignored
them.
His task done, the dog had little remembrance of
it. The fight had been hard, but the enemy was
slain, and the wound in his shoulder had already
begun to heal. His thoughts returned to his people,
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that made him shiver in his sleep. She was too content
to waste a moment in sleep.
At times when Tristan could not be with Robyn, he
stood upon the palisade, or climbed the gatehouse or
high tower, to observe the northmen. Each day he
looked out, expecting to see an attack, but time
passed and still the raiders labored upon the moor.
The prince saw them build a series of gargantuan
catapults, rising like ungainly insects from broad,
wooden carts. Daryth joined him, upon the palisade,
as he counted a dozen of the great war machines.
“We’ll stop them, you know,” said the Calishite with
easy confidence. He laughed, quietly, and said reflectively,
“You know, I never thought I’d be one to fight
for any kind of cause—a grand purpose that I would
champion. I’m too proud to think that, after all this
trouble to find a cause, my cause might fail!” Daryth
smiled at Tristan’s worried expression.
Another time he discovered Keren reclining
against the parapet of the high tower, gently strumming
his harp. Sable perched on the stone rampart,
higher than anything within his field of vision, and
preened his inky feathers.
The bard looked quite pleased with himself as he
set the harp aside and greeted the prince. He saw
Tristan nod at the instrument, and understood his
question.
“Yes, indeed, the song is coming along quite well,”
the bard said, grinning. “I hope you’ll be able to hear
it very soon.”
Life began to feel almost normal within the castle,
crowded though it was with the citizens of the town
and nearby cantrevs. Food was plentiful, if not terribly
varied, and the position on the little knoll seemed
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building huge siege engines.
The Ffolk, meanwhile, prepared Caer Corwell as
best they could for defense. Huge pots of oil were
gathered in the gatehouse, and on the walls. Arrows
by the hundred were made and collected for the six
or seven score archers in the garrison. Food was
rationed at a rate that would allow for many months
of siege.
Tristan spent much time with Robyn. Her
strength slowly returned, but she stayed in bed
most of the time. They had moved her to a safer
room, near the center of the keep, and she was
never unattended. The prince, Friar Nolan, the
bard, and Daryth alternately stayed with her, so
that one or two of them was always present. No
additional attack materialized, however.
Several days passed before the prince had a chance
to be alone with her, but one evening he arrived to
keep her company as Keren, who had been there, was
ready to retire for the night. When the door closed
behind the bard, Tristan knelt beside Robyn’s bed
and took her hand.
“I’ve been thinking about you,” she admitted, with
a frankness that had nothing of the coy in it. “You
stayed away too long!”
“I know. I’m sorry. There’s a lot to do in the castle,
but everything seems unimportant compared to
being with you.”
She pulled him to her, and he felt the cares of the
castle fall from him.
They remained awake throughout the night, talking
or simply sitting beside each other. Near dawn,
the prince finally fell asleep in his chair, and Robyn
cradled his head and wondered what he dreamed
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At firs the water was only warm, driving the deepseated
chill from the unicorn’s bones and bringing his
shiver under control The balmy liquid washed over
the huge, soiled body, driving the acid sludge from the
Darkwell off what remained of Kamerynn’s snowy
coat.
Then the water cleansed the wounds of the unicorn,
soothing like a fine salve, mending shattered bones.
The goddess wept for the suffering of her child, but
her tears healed and restored and replenished.
Eventually, the great unicorn managed to stand
and shake himself, sending a clear spray of water
through the air. His eyes remained shut, damaged
such that even the tears of the goddess could not
restore them.
The rain spattered upon what was left of the Darkwell,
washing more oily sludge through the wreckage
of the Firbolgs’ dam. The water cleansed the ground,
and healed it, nearly everywhere it fell. Slowly,
Kamerynn lurched away.
Only in the center of the Darkwell, where still lingered
a potent mixture of pollution and earthen
enchantment, did the dark power resist the balm of
the Mother. Here the water swirled and bubbled very
darkly indeed.
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407
very secure. But always, the besieged had the knowledge
that, beyond their palisade, an implacable foe
awaited—an enemy that would not hesitate to slay
or enslave them all.
And then, eight days after the fall of Corwell Town,
the army of the northmen surged forward again.
Great engines of war trundled across the moors, leaving
traces of black smoke in the clear morning air.
From the smoke emerged a monstrous column, and
the prince recognized the Firbolgs of Myrloch. The
creatures marched in a long file, and Tristan could
see the massive log they carried as a ram.
Tristan stood with Daryth and Pawldo on the ramparts
of the gatehouse, overlooking Castle Road. The
two men stood against the stone rampart, while
Pawldo scrambled onto a box to look over the wall.
“What’s that?” cried the halfling, squinting into the
distance at the giants’ ram.
“It’s a knocker for the door,” said Daryth. “I think
they want to come in.”
* * * * *
Kamerynn lay in the stinking mud. Waves of pain
assaulted him, again and again, until he no longer
noticed them. The pain had faded into the background
as simply another fact of life.
Suddenly Kamerynn heard a rustling of leaves, and
froze, straining to hear the approach of a possible
enemy. Then he felt a warm wetness upon his face,
and his back, and the rustling increased to a steady
patter.
Rain.
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20
A CONTEST OF MIGHT
COMPELLED BY A mysterious sense of urgency, Canthus
broke into the patient lope that he could
maintain for many days. The great moorhound felt a
need to return to his home, without understanding
why.
Behind, the wolves of the Pack matched their
leader’s pace. No longer did the wolves strike at animals
protected by fence or barn, nor did they molest
the humans they saw in passing. Canthus, in his natural
caution, led them around settlements, and
maintained too steady of a pace for the leisurely
plundering of isolated farms.
But though the great dog’s strength and endurance
were mighty, his distance from home was long.
It would be many days before he again saw Caer
Corwell.
* * * * *
Kazgoroth advanced in the lead of the raiders’
army, personally directing the placement of two of
the great catapults. The great wooden wheels
sucked turf from the moor as the huge war
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Dark Page 408
their opportunity.
Smiling inwardly, Kazgoroth knew that the Bloodriders
would not fail.
A shower of arrows suddenly descended upon the
crews of the catapults, sending several northmen
screaming to the ground. Others swiftly replaced
them, and the machines continued their fiery
assault. Already, several of the pitch-soaked missiles
had struck the palisade, forcing the defenders to
scramble.
But Thelgaar’s brows knitted in concern, as the
Beast cloaked in his body considered the one
unknown quantity facing it during this battle.
Where was the young druid?
* * * * *
“Now!”
Tristan’s order echoed through the courtyard, and
the archers of the Ffolk sent hundreds of missiles
sailing into the ranks of the attackers on the slopes
below the palisade.
“Now the oil!”
Fifty men of the castle guard, including Daryth,
Pawldo, and the prince himself, had occupied the
gatehouse platform. Now, several men, insulated
with heavy gauntlets, hoisted a bubbling cauldron of
oil to the edge of the stone parapet and poured it over
the side.
There was a moment’s hush as everyone waited to
see the effect. Then a young trooper at the wall cried
hysterically, “It’s not stopping them! They’re still
corning!”
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machines lumbered forward. Two hundred northmen
pushed each to the bottom of the steep slope.
The wooden palisade of Caer Corwell loomed a hundred
feet above.
Creaking noisily, the vehicles lodged in position.
Great, smoking cauldrons of smoldering pitch,
hauled in carts drawn by several dozen raiders, followed
the catapults. Black and acrid smoke swirled
around the raiders, but the stench bothered Kazgoroth
not in the least.
All around the Iron King, the legions of the northmen
advanced upon Caer Corwell. The structure was
well fortified, yet never did Kazgoroth’s confidence in
the outcome of the battle falter.
To the left, Groth and his company of Firbolgs
carried a heavy ram up the exposed length of the
castle road. Each of the creatures wore a hood and
cloak of heavy leather, protecting it against attacks
from above. The ram—a massive trunk of oak,
capped with a fist of iron—carried within it the
power of the Darkwell, and the Beast knew that the
mortal gates of Caer Corwell could not stand
against it long.
Against the slopes of the castle’s knoll hurtled
the thousands of northmen. Armed with ropes,
spikes, ladders, and firepots, the raiders began to
scramble up the steep and rocky sides and
attempted to breach the wooden palisade at the
top.
Only the Bloodriders did not participate in the
attack, for their steeds became liabilities upon
the steep slopes, or within the narrow confines of
the steep road. When the gates fell, however, or
the wall was breached, the Riders would have
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of the defenders on top of the wooden palisade.
Tristan hurled himself and his sword at the nearest
Firbolg, spilling the creature’s guts onto the stone
floor. Before his first victim had fallen, the prince
struck another, and then a third. In seconds, the bellows
of the wounded Firbolgs reverberated through
the hollow stone structure. The rest of the monsters
dropped the ram, pulling their crude stone daggers
or heavy wooden clubs from beneath their leather
cloaks.
The prince was vaguely aware of Daryth at his
side, and he saw a silvery flash dart suddenly from
between them, low to the ground. He knew the
valiant halfling stood with them.
“Look out!” The cry from Daryth alerted Tristan to
a blow from a Firbolg to his left, and he barely
ducked the murderous cut of a heavy blade. Before
the Firbolg recovered, however, the Sword of Cymrych
Hugh visited his heart, hissing eagerly, and the
creature fell heavily to the flagstones, which were
quickly dyed red by the blood from his death wound.
More Firbolgs crowded into the gatehouse, as the
flagstones grew slick with blood. As Tristan lunged
toward one giant, his boots slipped and he fell,
knocking the wind from his lungs. The giant kicked
him in the ribs with a hobnailed boot, and he curled
involuntarily from the pain, waiting for a final blow
from above.
Through the red haze of his vision, the prince saw
Daryth leap, driving his blade deep into the Firbolg
that had kicked him.
“Come here!” Pawldo grabbed the prince’s arm and
pulled with surprising strength for one of his size.
Another fighter helped, and they yanked him from
DARKWALKER ON MOONSHAE
413
Tristan looked over in disbelief. Indeed, the
scalding oil simply splashed off the Firbolgs’
hoods, spattering to the road and swiftly cooling
upon the gray paving stone.
The hulking Firbolgs shoved their battering ram
against the stout oaken gates. Splinters flew, and the
barrier sagged inward from the force of the blow.
“They won’t hold much longer!” observed Tristan
quietly.
“How can we stop them?” asked Daryth, shouting
over the din of the pounding. “We can’t let them
through the gatehouse—they’ll have the run of the
castle!”
“Come on!” called Tristan, drawing the Sword of
Cymrych Hugh and yanking open the trapdoor leading
down into the gatehouse.
“Might as well die downstairs as up,” muttered
Pawldo, darting into the winding stairwell after the
prince.
Daryth leaped after them. A half dozen men-atarms
followed the trio down the stairs.
Tristan burst through the door leading into the
lower gatehouse just in time to see the great wooden
portals crash inward. One broke free and fell to the
ground, while the other hung loosely from a single
hinge. Immediately, the press of ponderously cheering
Firbolgs tumbled through the breach.
With the main gates smashed, the gatehouse gave
the Firbolgs two routes into the castle. If they could
also crash through the portcullis with their ram,
they could charge directly into the courtyard. If
they could overcome Tristan and his companions,
the monsters could climb through the trapdoor onto
the roof of the gatehouse, and from there reach all
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and saw that only himself, Daryth, Pawldo, and a
single man-at-arms stood between the Firbolgs and
the door giving access to the castle.
Breathing deeply, the prince realized that the Firbolgs,
too, had stepped back from the pace of battle
for a brief rest. As sweat poured down his forehead,
the prince angrily wiped it from his eyes. He knew he
could not allow the Firbolgs time to rest and regroup,
or they would certainly pick up their ram and smash
the portcullis.
“We must attack,” gasped the prince, raising the
Sword of Cymrych Hugh, though the effort shot
burning pain through his arm.
“Hi-eeee!” With a screech, Pawldo bounded forward,
striking deeply into the calf of a startled Firbolg.
Before his companions could build on his
initiative, however, the flat of a Firbolg cutlass
crashed heavily into the halfling’s little body, sending
him flying into the stone wall. Then Pawldo dropped
senseless to the floor.
“All right, you stinking bastard,” growled Daryth,
in a low voice than somehow carried clearly through
the din of battle. The Calishite advanced in a low
crouch, and the Firbolg that had struck Pawldo
recoiled instinctively from the sight of coming death.
Daryth sprang forward, and Tristan stepped
quickly beside him. As the prince fended off a series
of attacks against the Calishite’s back, Daryth forced
the offending Firbolg backward.
With an inarticulate gurgle of terror, the monster
stepped into the ram that still lay in the middle of
the gatehouse and tumbled over backward to the
floor with a mighty crash. As his face twisted into a
mask of hatred, Daryth drove forward and sank his
DARKWALKER ON MOONSHAE
415
the thick of the melee and got him to his feet. Ducking
a pair of huge clubs, Daryth sprang away from
the Firbolgs and landed by his companions, checking
to see that Tristan was all right.
“I’m fine. Thanks,” gasped the prince.
Without waiting to acknowledge him, Daryth again
leaped into the fray as a Firbolg came close. The slender
Calishite gave the mountain of a creature a swift
cut to the neck.
For a few seconds, Tristan rested and regained his
breath, looking at the progress of the battle within
the tight confines of the gatehouse. Several dozen
Firbolgs still raged against the few humans. Fortunately
for the humans, the close quarters and their
own lack of imagination played against the Firbolgs.
A half dozen or so of their numbers lay on the flagstones,
dead, and near those bodies lay at least three
men-at-arms, skulls crushed.
Once more, Tristan pushed forward into the
fight, selecting a stupidly grinning Firbolg as his
next target. The monster’s foul breath nearly made
the prince gag. Ignoring the prince’s first blow, the
perspiration-covered Firbolg drove his heavy club
downward, but with a clear anticipation of the
blow, Tristan stepped quickly to the side, and then
disemboweled the creature with a slashing cut of
his sword.
Bellowing in pain, the monster slumped to the
ground, trying in vain to hold its intestines. In
moments, the Firbolg died, and the gore on the flagstones
grew thicker and more slippery than ever.
The stench of blood and death filled the gatehouse,
and weariness began to drag at defenders
and attackers alike. Tristan looked quickly around,
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of intelligence, some Firbolgs had been keeping them
busy while others had cleared and hoisted the heavy
ram for a final assault.
“Let’s go!” the prince called, and immediately the
three men dove between the slower giants and threw
themselves into action.
Tristan struck quickly at a Firbolg holding one end
of the ram. Daryth whirled past him, spinning and
dodging as he struck the other confused giants.
Keren, too, pressed in, striking more slowly, but
coolly keeping the enemy from the backs of his two
companions.
The entire squirming mass of Firbolgs slipped and
cursed as the ram once again tumbled to the floor.
From somewhere, however, a Firbolg’s club spun
sideways and crashed heavily, into Keren’s ribs. The
bard stumbled back to the door, his face ashen with
pain.
Trying to protect their companion, Tristan and
Daryth fell back again as the Firbolgs once more
forced them to the wall. As before, the press of heavy
bodies actually restricted the actions of those
engaged in the fight, and several more of the monsters
added their blood to the crimson surface of the
floor, victims of their own side.
“We . . . can’t hold out . . . for long,” gasped Daryth,
twisting frantically to avoid a swinging cutlass. The
heavy iron blade struck sparks from the stone wall
and cut a deep gouge, barely missing the Calishite’s
head.
“We have to try,” grunted Tristan, too busy fending
off attacks to look at his friend.
A rattling clang sounded through the gatehouse,
and the prince recognized the sound with
DARKWALKER ON MOONSHAE
417
shortsword to the hilt in the Firbolg’s belly.
Darting back with lightning speed, Daryth avoided
a blizzard of blows aimed in vain by the other Firbolgs.
Tristan took advantage of the enemy’s singlehanded
pursuit of the Calishite. The Sword of
Cymrych Hugh seemed to relish each hissing touch
of Firbolg flesh, and the prince carved several deep
wounds before he, too, fell back against the wall.
But this ebb and flow of combat could not continue
for more than a few minutes more, Tristan realized.
Even as he looked for a solution, a wicked swing cut
the head from the one remaining man-at-arms
standing with them. Now Daryth and Tristan stood
alone before the wide wooden door leading to the
upper level of the gatehouse.
“When the Firbolgs came to Corwell . . .”
The strong voice, lifted in song, emerged from the
hall behind them. Like magic, the prince felt
renewed strength flow through his sword arm. The
song, accompanied by aggressive yet melodic harp
chords, seemed to have the same effect upon Daryth.
The Calishite wiped the sweat from his eyes, and the
weariness distorting his face gave way to a look of
deadly determination.
And then Keren stood between them.
The bard quickly slung his harp behind his back
and brandished his silver longsword. Even without
his instrument, however, the bard sang out a lusty
song of battle, turning between verses to wink at the
prince and say, “A few minutes, my prince. That’s all
the longer we have to hold!”
“The ram!” cried Daryth, pointing with his bloodstained
blade.
Tristan realized then that, with an unusual show
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bristling aggressively. Immediately, she and her company
sprang forward, their steely spearheads
advancing as a glittering and impenetrable wall of
death.
“Go!” cried Daryth, sagging against the wall in
relief.
Tristan grinned weakly at the Calishite, as they
were ignored by the Firbolgs. Together they watched
the rout as panic spread among the hulking creatures
and they turned, en masse, and fled the gatehouse.
Two dozen dead or badly wounded Firbolgs
lay sprawled and bleeding about the small structure,
while a smaller number fled down the castle road.
The fight for the gatehouse was won.
* * * * *
Clouds of black smoke spiraled skyward from the
flaming walls of the palisade, obscuring the Beast’s
view of the castle. The monster recalled the ease with
which the Firbolgs had broken into the gatehouse.
Kazgoroth wondered how the battle following the
break-in had fared. Were the Firbolgs in the courtyard
yet?
Angrily, the Beast compared this swift success to
the plodding progress of the raiders against the palisade.
The steep and rocky slopes leading to the wall
had proved too sheer in many places for men on foot
to climb. In other places, a few hundred northmen
had managed to reach the top and hurl themselves
against the wooden walls, which, the Beast noted in
anger, still stood.
Now, Kazgoroth could see the walls smoldering and
DARKWALKER ON MOONSHAE
419
a numbing shock.
Someone had reached the crank and winch, and
was now raising the only barrier between the Firbolgs
and the courtyard of Caer Corwell.
“The portcullis! It’ll let them into the courtyard!”
shouted the prince. “Get to the stairs! Fall back!”
“Run, you overgrown bags of blubber!”
The harsh voice, ringing through the gatehouse,
sent a thrill of hope through the prince, He saw that
the portcullis had been raised only about four feet
from the ground before being stopped. Instead of letting
the giants out of the gatehouse, it let Finellen
and her dwarves in.
“Now, get back to Myrloch, where you belong!”
The prince could not see why, but the Firbolgs
began to bellow and yell, both fear and frustration in
their voices as they milled about in the gatehouse
like a herd of sheep that have scented the hungry
wolf. One cried out in pain, another dropped to the
ground, slain.
Tristan and Daryth gasped as they leaned against
the door, momentarily forgotten by the Firbolgs. An
occasional dwarven curse sounded from the courtyard,
confirming Tristan’s guess as to their rescuers.
“I told you,” said Keren, struggling to his feet. “A
few minutes!”
“And not a second too soon,” admitted the prince,
relieved to see the bard apparently recovered.
“Now run, you stinking cowards!” taunted Finellen,
punctuating her cry with a vicious thrust into the
groin of a retreating Firbolg. The monsters fell back
more quickly than ever, slipping and scrambling
across the gory floor.
“Charge!” cried the dwarven warrior, her beard
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across its exposed arms and face. Snakelike, a forked
tongue emerged from the grotesque face and the eyes
grew red hot in anger and frustration.
With an inarticulate scream, Kazgoroth released
his anger in a blast of explosive magic. The fleeing
Firbolgs, led in their panic by Groth, disappeared in
a thundering explosion as a great chunk of the castle
road blew up. Chunks of paving stone, clods of dirt,
and small pieces of Firbolg flew upward through the
air, arcing out to land hundreds of yards away from
the road.
The thundering eruption brought the fighting to
a momentary halt as the warriors on both sides
gaped in shock. Two hundred feet of the castle road
had vanished, replaced by a crater twenty or thirty
feet deep. Not a single Firbolg lived, nor could the
body of any of the creatures be located. Fortunately
for the morale of Kazgoroth’s army, few witnessed
the Beast’s loss of control or realized the source of
the explosion. But even as the battle raged, rumors
of the king’s mysterious nature continued to spread
throughout the army of raiders.
Tremendous willpower allowed Kazgoroth to
regain control of its human body, and once again the
form of Thelgaar Ironhand strode forward among the
ranks of northmen.
“Send fire, and more fire!” he roared, and the
raiders hastened to obey their king. Trailing streaks
of black smoke, another barrage of missiles sped
toward the high wooden walls.With satisfaction, the
Beast watched many of them strike the timbers,
igniting a half dozen new fires.
Perhaps yet, thought the Beast, Caer Corwell
would burn.
DARKWALKER ON MOONSHAE
421
smoking in many places, but nowhere did a truly
massive conflagration blaze.
And what of the female druid? She had not yet used
her power during this part of the battle. Surely she
would be there, with the defenders, during these darkest
hours in Caer Corwell’s history. The Beast hoped
that she would strike soon, revealing her location.
Once this was done, she would belong to the Beast.
Frustrated, Kazgoroth could barely restrain the
urge to use the unbridled power of the Darkwell. A
blast of savage magic could blow away an entire section
of the palisade, giving the raiders easy access to
the heart of the castle.
Cursing, the Beast knew that such a display
would have a disastrous effect upon his own troops.
The superstitious northmen might very well flee
the battlefield in confusion and panic. They would
realize that something powerfully magical was in
the body of Thelgaar Ironhand.
Then the Beast saw the Firbolgs, lumbering heavily,
emerge from the black and swirling smoke. A
dozen of the creatures raced down the castle road in
sheer panic. Kazgoroth could only deduce that the
rest of the monstrous company lay dead in the gatehouse
or the castle proper.
And finally the Beast’s careful control snapped.
Involuntary shudders of rage flexed Kazgoroth’s
body, warping and shifting his shape. Although few
northmen were near enough to see this, those that
did drew back in fear and astonishment.
First, the Beast grew several feet taller, while
retaining basically a human shape. With a force of
will, Kazgoroth brought its size back toward the
earth, but could not prevent an outbreak of scales
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Robyn went back to the palisade to direct the water
onto the fires.
A spattering ball of pitch struck the top of the palisade,
soaking one of the defenders in blazing flame.
The man staggered backward, and Robyn quickly
chanted the words to a simple spell—one she had
learned from her mother’s book. Cool water
appeared, in the air above him, splashing across the
man’s body and clothes, extinguishing the flames
and hissing into steam.
But her store of magic had to be conserved, and
again she picked up a heavy bucket and poured its
contents over a smoldering section of the palisade.
She had tied a thong to her staff and slung it across
her back. Now it lay there, and she could feel the
energy of its power through her sweatsoaked blouse.
Still, she dared not use the staff yet—its power, too,
was limited.
The springs below Caer Corwell were deep, and
many pumps had been placed throughout the castle
to reach the water in the event of attack, but the fires
were spreading now. Already, great sections of the
palisade had begun to crackle and roar as they were
consumed by hungry flames. The druid looked
around her in horror.
Suddenly the strains of a peaceful ballad caressed
her ears, overcoming the surrounding cacophony.
Like a ray of sunshine through storm, the music of
the bard’s harp penetrated the air of the courtyard,
and the defenders took heart.
Keren walked calmly through the ranks of the
desperate Ffolk, strumming his instrument and
softly singing a tale of tragic love. His cape was
battle-stained, and he favored his right leg slightly,
DARKWALKER ON MOONSHAE
423
* * * * *
Acrid smoke burned her eyes, and the din of battle
became a constant, dissonant theme in her ears as
Robyn did what she could to help contain the fires.
Now the missiles from the enemy catapults struck
with alarming accuracy, and it seemed that fires
erupted faster than the Ffolk could quench them.
Robyn’s long black hair, confined into a long braid,
twirled around her head as she ran from one crisis to
another. Despair threatened to overwhelm her, but
she drove the emotion back.
In a momentary lull, she looked around and saw
Gavin nearby, straining to operate a pump designed
to be run by six men. He nodded and gave her a
slight smile. She nodded back as she wiped a sweatsoaked
strand of hair from her face, heartened by the
strength of her friend. Stumbling wearily, she
stepped to his side and strained with him to raise
and lower the heavy lever. All around, the fighters of
the Eastern Cantrevs followed Gavin’s occasional
shouted commands.
But the fires threatened to strip the palisade
from the castle and expose the inhabitants to the
attackers.
“You fight well, my lass,” grunted the smith
through clenched teeth as he strained at the pump.
“I have little choice,” responded Robyn.
“As do we all,” said Gavin, smiling. “You! Pick up
those buckets and move!” he bellowed at a group of
firefighters who had paused to catch their breath.
Several more men joined the smith at the pump, and
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earth.With a sharp, chopping gesture, she waved at
the northmen scrambling across the wreckage of the
fallen wall.
Immediately, the ground below their feet split and
twisted, as an eruption of plants burst upward.
Bushes, vines, creepers, and thorns crawled forth,
snakelike, grasping the legs and waists of the
raiders. Caught by the druid’s spell, the attackers
hacked and slashed frantically at the writhing
plants.
But the stalks and branches would not slow the
attack for long. However, the plants gave Gavin and
the Ffolk of the Eastern Cantrevs time to form a
long line, three ranks deep, in preparation for a
savage charge. The northmen who did not fall
instantly began to retreat. Breathing heavily from
the exertion and excitement, Robyn shouted in triumph
as she saw the attacking force broken. Gavin
and his company now patrolled the entire length of
the breach.
“We did it! “ Robyn cried, running up to the smith
and seizing him excitedly. “They ran away! We
stopped them!”
Gently, Gavin removed her arms from his neck,
nodding, his head toward the moor a hundred feet
below. “But,” cautioned the smith, “the enemy is not
quite finished.”
* * * * *
Laric’s skull-face split into a ghastly caricature of a
grin as the dozens of prisoners were prodded toward
the Bloodriders. For a moment, the captain’s
DARKWALKER ON MOONSHAE
425
but war seemed to be the farthest thing from his
mind. Robyn instinctively looked up to see the black
falcon, circling above the defenders.
With a wry smile, Robyn imagined her appearance.
Soot and dirt coated her skin. Her hands were
chapped and sore.
“Have you seen Tristan?” she asked Keren.
“He led the defense of the gatehouse!” exclaimed
the bard, and then added soberly, “Pawldo was hurt,
but I don’t think it’s serious.”
“And the fight?”
“The gatehouse is secured,” replied the bard. “The
Firbolgs have fled, and now the great threat lies to
the walls themselves. How do they stand?”
Robyn’s despair rose to the surface and her voice
cracked. “We cannot contain the fires much longer, I
fear.”
As if in taunting mockery of her words, a great section
of the wall suddenly collapsed in a cloud of
smoke and sparks.
Immediately, northmen appeared in the gap, crossing
the ruins of the wall and charging into the courtyard.
“To arms!” Gavin’s bellowed command thundered
through the courtyard, and the warriors of his company
dropped buckets and pumps, reaching instead
for sword and shield. Keren slung his harp over his
shoulder in favor of his sword and joined the line,
anchoring the far flank. But Robyn knew that a hundred
or more northmen would enter the courtyard
before Gavin’s company could organize.
Again, she called upon the knowledge gained from
her mother’s book, chanting an arcane command
and drawing the power of the goddess from the
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As each hoof, thus enchanted, struck the ground, a
sharp crack of noise broke upon the field. Should the
hoof happen to strike a stone or the tip of a sunken
boulder among the soft loam of the field, then the
crack was amplified tenfold, and a shower of sparks
burst across the grass.
Prancing eagerly now, the horses of the Bloodriders
awaited their masters. Leaving the drained corpses
sprawled about the commons, Laric’s creatures
leaped into their saddles, turning the snorting heads
toward Caer Corwell. Laric drew his sword and held
the black, tarnished blade in the air before him. Its
tip indicated the breach in the palisade, high atop
the looming cliff. The cracking and sparking of the
enchanted hooves shot across the battlefield like the
bursting of lightning, drowning out all other sounds.
Quickly the great horses broke into a trot. The clattering
noise of their hoofbeats rose to an unbelievable
din.
As the Riders picked up speed, Laric saw the world
slow around him. Men turned to watch the Riders,
and they moved as if suspended in molasses. Balls of
pitch, launched by the catapults, seemed almost to
freeze in the air, inching forward finally like puffballs
balancing on a light breeze. The dark enchantment
speeded the Bloodriders far faster than
mortals, and the rest of the world slowed to a crawl.
And now the Bloodriders began to gallop, charging
straight for the sheer wall. Laric, in the lead, pulled
his stallion into a mighty leap. The creature’s hooves
now left a blazing trail of fire every time they struck
the ground, and this fire extended onto the slope.
Quickly, impossibly, the horses of the Bloodriders
thundered onto the sheer slope leading up to Caer
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thoughts turned toward the druid who was somewhere
up there, in the castle. The lust within him
twisted his features even more horribly. Even the
gaunt black stallion underneath him sensed his
anticipation, prancing and snorting nervously.
On the field that had once been the site of the Festival
of the Spring Equinox, Laric let his gaze linger
upon the steep slope, almost a sheer cliff, that stood
between him and the quarry he so desired. The palisade
atop the slope had burned to ashes, and now a
line of Ffolk stood along the crest of the knoll,
weapons ready.
The prisoners—mostly elder Ffolk who had not
fled before the advancing enemy—were pushed
toward the Bloodriders, who set upon them with
complete mercilessness. Few of the prisoners even
had time to scream, or turn in horror, and none
escaped the quick and killing blows. Rich, red blood
welled forth, to be trapped by the eager cupped
hands of the Bloodriders.
Each of the Riders spread a leather pouch below a
bleeding body, quickly gathering a deep, crimson
pool. Laric could barely control the trembling in his
skeletal hands as his pouch drained the life from a
frail old woman. He turned slowly to his gaunt black
mount, kneeling at the steed’s flank.
Carefully, Laric held the pouch open and lifted the
stallion’s foreleg. He dipped the black hoof into the
warm blood, relishing the aroma that wafted upward
when the two met. As the hoof emerged, it pulsed
with a glowing vibrancy. Slowly, deliberately, he
anointed each of the stallion’s hooves, while each of
the other Riders of his company did the same to their
mounts.
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sight of anyone who might have been nearby. He took
notice of nothing but the spoor before him, winding
through the fens until he finally entered the sunnier
realms of forest.
In his darting speed, Newt traveled many miles in
an hour, never flagging in his determination. And
finally, near the end of the day, he came upon the
source of the long trail.
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Corwell. To watchers, they were a blur of shadow and
fire, leaving a land black and tortured in their wake.
To the Riders, the rest of the world was a mosaic of
stunned observers and slowly tumbling fireballs.
* * * * *
Newt buzzed lazily among the groves of aspens
along the shore of crystalline Myrloch. The summer
day warmed him and made him sleepy, yet he felt
propelled by a strange uncertainty.
Flitting like a hummingbird through the trees,
Newt blinked into invisibility for a second, before
reappearing and again disappearing. In his agitation,
he continued to pop in and out of sight, unconsciously
hurrying through the forest, ever southward.
Finally, the summery air grew rank with the stench
of decay and death. Flies and gnats buzzed heavily in
the still, humid air. Newt realized that he had flown
to the Fens of the Fallon.
The knowledge brought a sudden memory of his
adventure with the maiden and her companions. He
giggled happily as he recalled the Firbolgs thrashing
about in the grip of Newt’s illusionary magic.
Still blinking, he decided to have a look at the scene
of his adventure—the stronghold of the Firbolgs.
Buzzing low, under the drooping branches of willows,
hovering above the brackish water, he suddenly
noticed a trail.
He could not see, nor smell, nor otherwise identify
how he followed the spoor, laid down weeks earlier in
brackish water and clutching pools of mud.
Racing quickly, Newt vanished entirely from the
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21
A FORTRESS FALLEN
PAWLDO RECOVERED CONSCIOUSNESS as Tristan and
Daryth carried him to the barracks, where the
wounded were cared for as best as possible. Here
they encountered Friar Nolan.
“How goes the fight?” asked the cleric, pulling a
woolen blanket over the face of a blankly staring
fighter. He stood and looked at the prince, and Tristan
could barely hold back an expression of shock.
The formerly stout cleric had grown much thinner,
and the skin seemed to sag upon his body. His face
had an unhealthy pallor, with black circles under the
eyes. He looked as if he had not slept for weeks.
“We’ve stopped them for the time being,” answered
Tristan as he lay the halfling upon a relatively clean
patch of straw.
“Let me up, I tell you!” shouted Pawldo, twisting
away from the prince. “I’m going back out there
and—”
“You’re staying right here!” stated the cleric, silencing
the feisty halfling. A garish streak of blood ran
down the side of Pawldo’s head, and he could not conceal
the deep pain that shot through him when he
moved. Meekly, Pawldo relaxed into the bed of straw
430
and closed his eyes.
As Tristan and Daryth returned to the courtyard, a
shower of sparks tumbled over the palisade beyond
the stables, threatening to ignite the straw. Daryth
joined a group of Ffolk rushing to extinguish the
flames. Tristan, seeing the fire quickly under control,
ran to look for Robyn.
He saw her, standing beside Gavin, on the far side
of the courtyard. The two were peering down the
slope of the knoll, toward the commons. The prince,
starting toward them, noticed that the line of Ffolk
at the wall seemed suddenly thrown backward as if
in shock.
And then he saw the Bloodriders strike the courtyard.
* * * * *
“What’s happening?” cried Robyn, as the Bloodriders
became a blur of movement. She heard the
horrifying lightning and thunder of the hooves, and
saw the fire-blackened path behind them, but the
horsemen themselves moved too fast for her mortal
eyes.
Only Gavin seemed capable of reacting as the
black horses climbed the knoll. The giant smith
stepped before Robyn and lifted his huge hammer.
The woman saw a blur of red eyes, black skin, and
grinning teeth, and then the horsemen were upon
them. Robyn felt something massive—perhaps a
horse’s shoulder—slam against her, and she fell to
the ground.
Dimly, she saw Gavin’s hammer whirl and strike a
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hands, Kazgoroth moved upward at the head of a
thousand northmen. The breach in the palisade, formerly
held by a company of Ffolk, was empty once
more.
For the charge of the Bloodriders had passed here.
Not a single defender along that line still stood to
meet the advancing raiders. The charge had cut like
a scythe through the Ffolk, and now the men of the
Iron King reached the crest of the knoll and rushed
through the opening.
* * * * *
“In the name of the goddess . . .” Robyn whispered.
When she saw Gavin, dust-covered and bleeding,
she sobbed uncontrollably. Kneeling beside the man
who had died to protect her, she gently closed his
sightless eyes. For the first time since they had seen
his village in flames, she thought that he looked
peaceful. He had joined his family in death.
She stood and carefully took the staff from behind
her back, holding it close before her. Its smooth surface,
so warm against her hands, calmed and
strengthened her. She felt very old, but as if that age
had weathered and toughened her.
“Thank the goddess you’re all right,” said the bard,
as he ran to her.
“The smith saved my life,” she said simply, and
then turned away.
She saw the Bloodriders sweep through the courtyard
of the castle, her home, Now they moved at a
more normal speed, killing anyone who stood in their
path until they were galloping through a courtyard
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Rider from his saddle with enough force to shatter
his body into pieces. She saw a slashing blade cut a
chunk of red from the smith’s shoulder as Gavin
stepped backward, straddling Robyn’s body with his
giant legs.
Sparks and chips of rock stung her exposed skin.
But the smith stood firm, dividing the onrush of
horsemen so that none of the crushing steeds could
step on the druid.
Blood splashed onto her, and she saw weapons
pass over her in a blur. The blades left deep red
slashes all over Gavin’s body. His neck, chest, arms,
and head all spurted blood, but somehow Gavin still
stood, like some inexorable force of nature.
Then the horsemen were past, galloping unhindered
into the courtyard, leaving the battered remnants
of the company moaning and bleeding on the
parapet. Gavin slumped to his knees as Robyn
squirmed from beneath him and sat up. The smith’s
eyes glazed as he looked dumbly at his lifeblood,
running freely into the ground. Then he slowly toppled
backward to lie, motionless, among the many
other bodies.
* * * * *
The body of Thelgaar Ironhand seemed like an
inefficient vehicle for climbing the steep slope, but
the Beast forced itself to retain the bothersome
shape. Now, with the fall of the fortress so near at
hand, it could not afford to distract the northmen
from their task.
Grasping chunks of sod or outcrops of rock with its
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Brigit looked slightly puzzled, but nodded.
Robyn and Tristan slipped through the stable
doors and sprinted toward the keep, under cover of
the acrid smoke. Soon they reach a position near the
great oaken doors.
Suddenly the stable doors burst open, and the Sisters
of Synnoria charged into the embattled courtyard.
The silver plate made of the sisters gleamed in the
afternoon sun, and the colorful pennants, proud as
ever, trailed from the silvery lances. Those lances
now leveled at the circling mass of the Bloodriders,
as the two groups of riders came together with brutal
impact.
The Bloodriders swerved from the path of the
advancing knights. But before the black horses could
swing around the knights and trap them, the sisters
of Synnoria. Swung about and raced back toward the
stables.
Howling their victory cry, the Bloodriders pursued
the fleeing knights. The white horses were swift,
however, and the sisters outdistanced nearly all of
the Bloodriders in their short spurt across the courtyard.
All but one.
The captain of the Bloodriders hurled his black
stallion forward with lightning speed, and the powerful
horse carried him to the very heels of the sisters.
The knights, trailed closely by Laric, galloped past
Robyn as she stepped from the doorway onto the
paving stones of the courtyard. Her oaken staff
pounded sharply on the ground, once and then again.
She uttered words of arcane power, a call upon the
benevolence of the goddess.
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empty except for themselves and their dead victims.
“Are you all right?” From somewhere, Tristan
appeared next to the druid, touching her shoulder
with concern. She looked at him, and the sight of his
tired, careworn face made her nearly burst into tears
again.
“I’m fine,” she replied, gulping. She knew that she
could not yet let go.
“Come on, let’s get away from here!” Willingly, she
grabbed the prince’s arm and ran. They raced
through the choking, swirling smoke until they
reached the stables. Here, as he had hoped, Tristan
found that the sister knights had begun to mount
their white horses.
Brigit opened the stable doors to let them slip in,
and they turned and watched the Bloodriders wreak
havoc in the courtyard.
Heartsick, Tristan counted eleven white horses,
and eleven silvery knights. How these valiant warriors
had suffered in his service! Yet now they
mounted again, prepared as always to charge a foe
that outnumbered them five to one.
“Wait,” cried Robyn, as a man-at-arms prepared to
throw open the stable doors. “Give me time to get out
there near the doors to the keep!
“Tristan, I need you to come with me,” she said, and
he could not refuse.
Robyn turned again toward the eleven knights.
“When the doors open, charge across the courtyard
once, and then return this way. You must lead the
Bloodriders past me!
“And please—” Robyn’s voice was low, her tone
grave, “all of you must pass before they reach me—
you must be certain!”
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Daryth had taken him during the training. Ahead lay
his castle and his beloved master.
The great black column towering into the sky
marked the location of Caer Corwell. The hound
loped steadily on, his long tongue hanging limply
from his jaws. His shaggy flanks were tangled and
matted with burrs, and his ragged breathing panted
from his huge chest.
Now his nostrils picked up scents of home—scents
ominously mingled with the more powerful aromas
of threat and danger. He could smell the salty waters
of the firth, and the musty dankness of the stables,
but these odors were far overshadowed by the smells
of fire, death, and decay.
Like a brown legion, the followers of Canthus raced
to Caer Corwell. But even as they ran, warriors died,
and the castle burned.
* * * * *
In a brief second, Laric saw the towering wall of
fire, and he sensed that the long line of debris—
bones of horses and ashes of Riders—represented
all that remained of his company. He felt no sadness
at the loss of his companions, for he was no longer
capable of such an emotion—only anger.
The black stallion veered from the sisters, for the
odds no longer favored Laric here. He noticed, dimly,
that Thelgaar Ironhand now led a large band of
raiders through the breach in the lines created by
the Bloodriders—the battle was far from over.
And always his decayed nostrils searched the
smoking, swirling air of the courtyard for the scent of
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And the goddess heard.
The goddess split the ground asunder, along the
line Robyn had marked with the staff. The goddess
called upon the wells of heat lying deep within her
bowels—vast pools of liquid rock glowing with white
hot fire. And the goddess gave this power to Robyn.
A wall of fire exploded from the ground, stretching
across the path of the charging Bloodriders. Paving
stones flew upward as the fires of the earthmother
reached toward the sky, creating a barrier of intense
heat.
The Bloodriders struck the wall of white fire. Their
horses turned instantly skeletal, mutilated and black
as they fell to the ground. The goddess’s fire took
hold of the body of each Bloodrider and scoured the
force of the Darkwell from his bones. Only ashes
emerged from the fire.
* * * * *
Like a gray brown wave, the wolves of the Pack
followed their leader across the moors, hills, and
forests of Gwynneth. Canthus took them quickly
from the highlands, through the sparse settlements
of the northern cantrevs, closer and closer to his
home and his master.
For more than a week, the mass of animals maintained
their steady course, resting only for a few
hours in the darkest hours of the night. Before dawn
they were off again, always rolling forward with that
steady lope.
Finally, Canthus sensed the nearness of his home,
for he passed through fields where Tristan and
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was forced to avert its eyes until the goddess’s power
receded.
The Beast saw, finally, the ruins of the Bloodriders,
and again its body twisted from the consuming
rage. The power of the Darkwell surged uncontrollably,
exploding in flames from Thelgaar’s distorted
mouth and flexing his brawny arms into serpentine
tentacles.
But the cool intelligence at the center of the monster’s
being brought it quickly under control. Quickly
the tentacles withdrew into human arms, and the
white-bearded face melted back into the likeness of
Thelgaar. Some northmen rubbed their eyes,
attributing the alarming sight to the swirling smoke,
the confusing din of battle. Others spoke silent
prayers to their foreign gods.
* * * * *
Tristan gasped as the white flames devoured the
Bloodriders. He dimly heard a clattering beside him,
and turned to see Robyn’s staff fall carelessly to the
ground. The druid sagged backward against the wall
of the keep, and slowly slumped. The prince leaped to
her side and caught her unconscious body before she
hit the ground. Robyn’s face was frighteningly pale,
but she still breathed. Obviously, the effort to cast
the awesome spell of destruction had drained and
exhausted her.
For a moment, Tristan let the battle surge forward
without him. Anguishing, he carried his beloved
Robyn into the shelter of the alcove before the doors
of the keep, laying her carefully upon his outspread
DARKWALKER ON MOONSHAE
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her whom he sought. The druid, he knew, must be
responsible for the destruction of his company. That
only made his longing for her deeper.
Suddenly, a delicious scent floated past his nostrils,
and the smoke parted enough for the Bloodrider to
see his quarry. She lay motionless against the stone
walls of the keep. Before her stood that arrogant
human, the one with the mighty sword. The human
would be a powerful enemy, Laric knew, but his lust
for the druid compelled him to attack.
His skeletal jaws clenched into a smile as the black
steed sprang forward, the hard hooves clattering
against the paving stones. With hot pleasure, Laric
saw that the prince did not yet notice him coming.
His attention seemed focused across the courtyard
toward the advancing ranks of northmen . . .
Toward Thelgaar Ironhand.
* * * * *
Kazgoroth paused among the corpses of the Ffolk
left by the charge of the Bloodriders. The human
lungs of Thelgaar Ironhand gasped for air, but no
matter, the Beast felt no energy drain from the long
climb.
The Beast watched the Sisters of Synnoria charge
from the stables, and it watched the Bloodriders
pursue them back across the courtyard.
And then the flames blossomed from the courtyard,
and Kazgoroth bellowed inarticulately at the
destruction of his own creatures. The white flames
soared high and burned the Beast’s eyes with the
power of the goddess. Roaring in a rage, Kazgoroth
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The final rise north of Corwell passed below the
loping paws of the Pack, and finally Canthus saw his
destination. The castle before him stood high upon
its familiar knoll, but its appearance was much
changed. Black smoke and orange flame roared skyward
from many places along the wooden palisade.
All about the base of the knoll pressed the army of
northmen, as catapults bombarded the fortress from
all sides, and raiders scrambled up the steep slopes
of the hill to attack every breach in the palisade.
With a growl, Canthus leaped to the defense of his
master’s home.
This loyal hound, however, was accompanied by a
thousand drooling, aroused, and fiercely hungry
wolves. The Pack set upon the army of the northmen.
A hundred raiders died without knowing what
killed them, for the Pack approached from the rear
of the battle. Slowly, as the screams of the dying
and the snarls of the killers spread across the field,
the raiders turned from the castle to behold canine
doom inexorably loping toward them.
The wolves approached from the north, where the
attack had been weakest. On the opposite side of
the castle, the Bloodriders had already breached
the palisade, and fighting raged in the courtyard.
But here, the palisade still stood, and the stone bulk
of the keep rose directly beyond. Here, too, much of
the slope leading to the castle consisted of sheer
cliffs of weatherworn rock, unclimbable by even the
most determined of attackers.
The raiders now turned to save themselves, ignoring
the castle. In a flash, the wolves were among
them, and each northman who confronted a wolf
with his weapon found two more creatures setting
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cloak. Then he took her staff and placed it across her
chest, hoping that the talisman might offer some
enchanted aid to her recovery.
The prince noticed that the oaken shaft seemed to
have cooled somewhat—it felt like a normal piece of
smooth oak, no longer throbbing with that strange
and deep sense of vitality he had noticed before.
And then Tristan forgot all about Robyn, as the
Sword of Cymrych Hugh compelled him to stare
across the courtyard. He saw the advancing form of
the enemy king—a huge, white-bearded northman
leading the charge of his countrymen with berserker
intensity.
But the prince, aided by the power of Cymrych
Hugh, saw much more than this. He saw the king as
it truly was—not human, nor even animal, but the
spawn of some force deeper and far more malignant
than any living organism.
He recognized the king as the demon that had
attacked Robyn in her room, only to be driven off by
the combined efforts of the druid, the cleric, and the
prince.
And he knew that the Beast recognized him.
Robyn moaned slightly, and stirred upon the steps
of the keep. The prince half-turned toward her, and
saw her eyes flutter open. He wanted to go to her, but
the sword would not let him.
Resolutely, the Prince of Corwell turned his back
upon Robyn and advanced to do battle with Kazgoroth.
* * * * *
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It seemed as though the land itself fought against
the northmen, and this thought gave the Red King
profound misgivings.
He looked about him, seeing more and more of his
men fleeing from the Pack. In a moment, he saw that
he would be surrounded by the rampaging horde.
With little regret, Grunnarch turned his back to
the wolves and joined the flight. His attention
focused not on the army of Thelgaar at the castle, or
even the status of the fortress itself.
Instead, Grunnarch fled toward his longship on the
beach of the firth. Foremost in his mind was home.
* * * * *
The prince steadily moved across the courtyard
toward the approaching mass of the northmen. He
ignored the vast numbers of the enemy, focusing his
attention solely upon the Beast. The remaining fighters
of the Ffolk, remnants of the companies that had
fought in the castle’s defense, now emerged from
behind barricades, and streamed from within the
buildings.
A hundred fighters of Gavin’s company, grimly
determined to avenge the death of their captain, fell
in behind Tristan. A score of dwarves, anchored by
the staunch Finellen, emerged from the gatehouse
and marched to his right. The Sisters of Synnoria
emerged from the stables, lances leveled, to the left
of the prince.
Those men-at-arms surviving from the castle’s garrison
and from other companies also swarmed into
the courtyard. Soon the number of Ffolk behind the
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upon him from flank and rear.
The blows of sword and axe killed many a wolf, but
the Pack rolled forward with single-minded determination,
always following the form of the great
moorhound that inspired them.
As the carnage continued, the blood-letting drove
the wolves to the height of frenzy. More and more,
the raiders simply fled, and quickly a wave of panic
spread. Within a few minutes, the enemy had been
cleared from the northern side of Caer Corwell.
* * * * *
A great carnivore leaped at Grunnarch, but he split
the creature’s skull with a crushing blow from his
axe. He turned in time to see Raag Hammerstaad,
fighting nearby, move too slowly to avoid the rush of
another of the beasts.
The wolf sank ivory fangs through Raag’s beard
and into the flesh of his throat, tearing out the windpipe
and jugular. The Isles of Norheim lost their king
in that instant, but Grunnarch was more concerned
with the loss of an entire army.
All around him, the raiders had begun to turn their
backs and flee these unnatural attackers. Another of
the snarling canines threw itself at the Red King,
and once again his battle-axe saved his life.
But Grunnarch had little spirit for this fight. A
bolder warrior than he it would be hard to find,
should the enemy be a man, with flesh and blood and
weapons and armor. But too often during this raid,
the enemy had been rain, or insects, or crags of
mountains. And now these wolves.
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not knocked from his hands.
They fought near the edge of the slope, and Tristan
spun away from that deadly sword seconds before
the Beast cornered him against the drop. He nearly
stumbled among the wreckage of the palisade, dodging
a downward blow that slashed completely
through a heavy timber.
“Look!”
The cry came from an unknown warrior among the
Ffolk, but it called the attention of the gathered multitudes
to the moor below them.
A thousand or more northmen streamed away from
the castle knoll, and behind them rushed the thousands
of wolves. Panic had spread through the entire
army, except for those upon the knoll with the Iron
King. Now these looked nervously past the hulking
form of their leader to the massive retreat being
enacted below them.
And they saw the visage of their leader and king
begin to change into something not imagined even in
their deepest nightmares.
* * * * *
The Beast watched its army flee, and it felt the
momentum of disaster building. The Firbolgs and
Bloodriders were dead, and its army now ran away.
Rage welled within the demonic breast, and the
Beast exploded into its true form before the terrorstricken
eyes of the northmen and the Ffolk. Its tail
grew longer than the timbers of the palisade and
with an angry lash a dozen northmen were toppled
from the knoll. It grew in height until it towered
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Prince of Corwell nearly matched that of raiders
standing with Thelgaar Ironhand.
For the first time, the Iron King drew his sword
from behind his back. The mighty steel blade, nearly
five feet long, extended menacingly. His great hands,
heavy with muscle, clasped the hilt, so that the heavy
weapon floated like a thin wand in the air.
The Sword of Cymrych Hugh, feathery in Tristan’s
hand, pulled him forward. But the prince needed no
encouragement to fight the creature before him. He
understood that this creature was the source of all of
the evil that had befallen Gwynneth during the long
and fatal summer.
The raiders and the Ffolk paused, instinctively, one
hundred yards apart. Thelgaar Ironhand strode forward,
and Tristan Kendrick, Prince of Corwell, met
him with steel.
Tristan eyed the towering figure before him,
watching the long blade intensely.
Suddenly, the Iron King’s long sword slashed
toward Tristan’s knees, and he parried the attack at
the cost of a numbing blow to his hands. His own
sword cut toward the northman’s shoulder, but the
king’s parry was as fast as his own had been. Again
and again, the two weapons clashed and clanged in
the otherwise eerily silent courtyard.
The weight of the Beast’s weapon, backed by the
power of the Darkwell surging through its body,
crashed against the Sword of Cymrych Hugh with
many times the might of a normal blow, and Tristan
had to back away from the Iron King’s steady attack.
The numbness in his hands turned to pain, and
Tristan found himself dreading the next blow. As
each one fell, it seemed impossible that his blade was
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opened her eyes. Her mouth opened in a gasp of
terror, but by then the Bloodrider’s clawlike hand
had grasped her shoulder.
Cruel spurs of bone punctured Robyn’s skin, and
the creature lifted her across the haunches of the
stallion, noting with pleasure that she had lost consciousness
at the horror of his touch.
But she still lived, and this was important. Laric
would kill her, certainly, but in order to feast upon
her essence as he did so, the killing must be very
carefully arranged. For now, he would be content to
place distance between himself and this scene of
chaos.
The others in the courtyard, still riveted by the
tableau before them, now heard the thundering of
hooves across the courtyard, Those who turned saw
the flash of a black horse and its red-cloaked Rider
ducking under the half-raised portcullis. Any who
looked quickly enough saw the motionless body of
the maiden draped across the stallion.
And then Laric was through the gatehouse,
racing like the wind down the castle road and
across the open moors. Sparks flashed and smoke
billowed where the black hooves struck the ground,
and the surface of the earth lay black and ruined
where the Bloodrider passed.
* * * * *
Kamerynn turned his broad head toward the
buzzing that approached from behind, almost as if he
still had eyes. He heard a voice, squealing in excitement.
A series of questions assailed the unicorn, far
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447
above the humans, its head higher than the walls of
the courtyard. It stood upon two mightily muscled,
heavily scaled rear legs.
Wicked barbs tipped the clutching forelegs, and
these thrust forward to try and pull the heart from
the breast of the Prince of Corwell. But the Sword of
Cymrych Hugh met those claws with the eternal
power of the goddess.
The flesh of the Beast could not withstand the
weapon’s enchantment. Screaming in pain, Kazgoroth
reared away from the Prince of Corwell and
his potent sword.
Momentary astonishment rooted the prince to the
flagstones, as the transformation of the Beast sent
shivers of horror through the fighters of the Ffolk
and the enemy alike. And the attackers stood immobile,
for the briefest of moments.
All of them, that is, except one.
* * * * *
Engrossed by the clash of prince and king, the
people in the courtyard did not notice the shadow of
Laric as he stealthily maneuvered away from the
press of bodies, trying to choose his moment precisely.
Dimly, Laric noticed Kazgoroth’s transformation
as the Beast assumed its true form, but the
Bloodrider’s attention focused far more diligently
upon the unconscious maiden.
As the others in the courtyard stood transfixed,
Laric spurred his snorting mount toward the druid.
Its hooves cracked and sparked against the paving
stones. Laric drew up before her as she blinked and
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outline of his illusionary bridge.
The unicorn could see illusions!
Newt’s mind, normally rather undirected, leaped
rapidly from this piece of knowledge to a simple
deduction, and then to a plan, He knew how to help
the unicorn!
Clapping his hands gleefully, and blinking again in
his excitement, Newt cast an illusion before the unicorn—
an illusion that precisely matched the reality of
the path stretching before them. Kamerynn sprang
forward in joy, tearing off at such a gallop that Newt
had to buzz himself forward at top speed to catch up.
Just as the unicorn reached the end of the spell’s
range, Newt let go with another tidbit of magic, and
another, and another.
Finally, the faerie dragon settled onto the unicorn’s
head, then crawled forward to perch on the broad
horn. Thus, with the dragon casting his spells, and
the unicorn leaping over the ground magically duplicated
before him, the pair raced through the byways
of Myrloch Vale.
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449
too rapidly for him to understand. He felt certain,
however, that the strange visitor was not an enemy.
Newt blinked in agitation and despair as he looked
at the once-mighty unicorn. Kamerynn had grown
gaunt in the recent weeks. His broad ribs stood out
clearly against the ragged, scratched pelt that had
been his gorgeous coat. But mostly Newt noticed the
unicorn’s scarred and pale eyes, and sensed the creature’s
blindness.
Like all creatures of Myrloch Vale, Newt was aware
of the unicorn as the benign son of the earthmother
and protector of the Vale. Now, seeing the creature
thus crippled, the little dragon was gripped by a sense
of danger and despair. He desperately wanted to help
the unicorn. But how?
Newt buzzed along with Kamerynn, thinking and
talking. The unicorn obviously did not understand
his speech, for the faerie dragon had asked many
questions without getting an answer. Instead, he just
kept plodding along the forest trail. How he found his
way—albeit a very slow one—Newt couldn’t guess.
A small brook splashed across their path, and the
unicorn slowed cautiously. Newt buzzed over the
stream. Hardly thinking, he imagined a bridge across
the stream—a casual gesture of his illusionary magic.
The bridge popped into view. It was a solid stone
structure, much too large for the stream, but Newt
liked it anyway. He turned his back upon the illusion,
gleefully deciding to leave it there and hope something
attempted to cross it before the magic wore off
in a few hours.
Then Newt stopped, forgetting to buzz his wings in
his astonishment. He saw, as he plopped lightly to
the ground, the unicorn’s sightless eyes tracing the
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22
MIST-WREATHED MOOR
ATRAILING PLUME OF black hair caught Tristan’s
eye, and he whirled in time to see the Bloodrider’s
stallion clatter across the courtyard. For a
second, his mind did not grasp the full impact of the
scene—then he saw the pale face and limp body
draped across the horse’s withers.
“Robyn!” The name caught in his throat. Without
thinking, he leaped toward the stables to get Avalon.
But already the Rider had streaked through the
gatehouse and raced down castle road.With a feeling
of revulsion, Tristan looked at the shining longsword
in his hand, and knew that the weapon would not let
him leave as long as the Beast remained here.
Tristan tried to throw the weapon to the ground.
He must rescue Robyn! But the hilt of the sword
remained, as if glued securely in his palm. Despite
the strongest efforts of his will, he could not drop the
sword.
“Damn you,” he snarled, turning toward the Beast
that had recoiled toward the edge of the courtyard.
Even as Tristan had watched the racing Rider, so
now he saw that the monster also eyed the Bloodrider
and his captive. The Beast’s eyes flamed, and
450
its face task.
He lifted the Sword of Cymrych Hugh and
advanced toward the towering creature.
The northmen fell away from the Beast in droves,
turning to roll or tumble down the slopes of the knoll
in their eagerness to escape.
With a shattering howl of frustration, the great
scaled head turned from the Prince of Corwell to
follow the blackened trail across the moor left by
Laric’s stallion. Before the prince could attack, the
monster slipped over the crest and sprang like a
huge cat down the steep slope. In moments, it too disappeared
across the rolling expanse of the moors.
The monster followed the Bloodrider’s trail.
* * * * *
Canthus’s jaws coursed with the red blood of the
northmen, and his shaggy coat bore cuts and nicks
from a dozen wounds. But the press of the Pack had
been too much for the northmen, and the last vestiges
of the raiding army now fled the snarling
attackers.
They abandoned their siege of Caer Corwell, running
through the streets of the town toward the
familiar security of the longships, still safely beached
a mile away.
The pace of the wolves’ attack gradually lightened
as weariness and wounds took their tolls. The field
around them ran red with the blood of slain northmen.
But now, as the wolves paused, the bloodlust slowly
passed from their eyes. Suspiciously, and curiously,
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beyond Corwell Town.
The sword’s possession of Tristan diminished, as
the Beast moved farther and farther away. Finally,
the prince turned and looked for his friends among
the crowd of silent, stunned watchers.
“Daryth! You must take command of the force,” he
called to the Calishite, who stood nearby. Daryth’s
dark skin was streaked with black grime, but his face
shone with determination. Smiling, he nodded.
“Brigit! Finellen!” Tristan turned to the two
females who had been such staunch allies during the
fight. “Can you aid Daryth and the Ffolk in chasing
the northmen back to their ships?”
“It’ll be a pleasure!” growled the bearded captain of
the dwarves, fingering her bloodstained axe.
“Of course,” added Brigit, quietly.
“Fighters of the Ffolk!” called Tristan, addressing
the growing congregation of his people in the ruined
courtyard. “The invaders of our land have fled! It
only remains to drive them back to their ships and
away from here! . . with such memories that they
shall never want to return!”
“Death to the northmen!”
“Drive them into the sea!”
The cries swelled to a crescendo as the people of
Corwell realized that the battle was nearly won. All
that remained was the final harvest of retribution.
Keren stood among the crowd, watching the prince
with renewed respect in his eyes. Tristan turned to
the bard and met his gaze,
“Will you come with me?” He did not need to
explain his mission.
“Our horses are being saddled even as we speak,”
answered the bard.“We’ll have her back or die!” Even
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they looked around. The Pack ignored the last few
fleeing raiders as they realized, as a group, that they
had entered a human settlement.
Slinking and growling nervously, the wolves left
the town, hurrying to reach the moors. A dozen
wolves raced to the south, followed by a score, and
then a few more in a small band. Several score loped
to the east, and others ran to the north. The Pack dispersed
to the points of the compass.
The call of the goddess no longer bound them
together. Instead, they heard the voice of the Mother
telling them of dens, and forest glens, and smooth
clear pools of crystalline water.
The wolves thought of deer and rabbits, and their
bellies stirred with their natural hunger. None
stopped to eat of the meat that their merciless attack
had left behind. Instead, no longer the Pack, the
wolves returned to the wilds.
* * * * *
The huge, malign shape moved with an easy grace
across the moors, racing down the black, smoldering
trail left by the Bloodrider and his captive.
Upon Caer Corwell’s knoll, Tristan and the rest of
the defenders watched the monster run, and slowly
felt the heat of combat fade.
The prince’s eyes stung with tears. He looked
about the castle—the home of his family for generations—
and saw the death and debris wrought by
the Beast and its minions. And he looked across the
rolling moor, to the disappearing shape of the
Beast, and then to the mass of northmen retreating
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“Ffolk of Corwell! Follow me to battle! Rid our
kingdom of this invading scourge!” The king’s words
roused his people anew.
King Kendrick looked down at the prince, standing
beside his horse. “Good luck, my son. I know you will
find her.”
Gripping his sword under his injured arm, he
reached out with his good hand and clasped Tristan’s
shoulder. Then his silver-black beard jutted forward
aggressively. “To arms, my Ffolk.We will drive them
into the sea!”
As the fighters in the courtyard milled about,
organizing for the pursuit, the prince and his three
companions ran to the stables and mounted. Already,
stableboys had three white horses of the sister
knights saddled, and they were busily stuffing provisions
into saddlebags.
Tristan retrieved Robyn’s staff from the doorway to
the keep. “She might be wanting this,” he told the
others as he mounted Avalon.
Suddenly, a delighted and familiar barking broke
through the courtyard, and Tristan turned to see a
moorhound bound through the gateway toward him.
“Canthus!” Tristan jumped to the ground as the
great moorhound ploughed excitedly into him,
knocking him to the flagstones. Canthus’s jaws were
stained with dried blood and his body marked by
many wounds, but his behavior was that of a gleeful
puppy welcoming his master home from a long
absence.
“Good dog,” sighed Tristan, scratching the hound’s
wooly neck. Canthus wagged his tail wildly.
“Quite a hound!” Daryth, kneeling beside them and
hugging the dog’s neck, choked back tears. “I could
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the mellifluous bard, gifted speaker though he was,
did not radiate conviction.
“I’m going, too!”
The pronouncement, in a high-pitched but very
determined voice, came from Pawldo. Tristan turned
and saw the halfling, his forehead and one eye
masked by a white bandage.
“Thank you, old friend,” answered the prince,
kneeling beside the halfling. “But you must stay here
and recover your strength. Your wounds—”
“My prince,” said Pawldo, with a rare pleading tone
in his voice, “it’s the Lady Robyn . . .”
“Of course.” Tristan stood, clenching his teeth to
hold back his own sudden rush of tears.
“You’ll have to find somebody else to chase the
northmen,” said Daryth. “I’m coming with you, too.”
“But . . .” Tristan began to object, but gratitude
toward his friends flowed warmly through his body.
“Very well. The four of us shall ride as soon as we
can.” In desperation, he looked about the castle for
someone else who might be able to command the situation.
As if in response, the stable doors burst open, and
several men-at-arms emerged, leading a large chestnut
mare. Seeing the rider, Tristan had to blink in
amazement. At the game time, a ragged, lusty cheer
arose from the throats of the Ffolk in the courtyard.
King Bryon Kendrick rode his warhorse once more.
Running forward, the prince saw with surprise
that his father had been lashed into the saddle. His
shattered legs had been tied to the stirrups, and his
left arm was hung in a sling. Yet his strong right arm
waved vigorously, and in his hand he hoisted a heavy
broadsword.
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most of his face, crimson lips still outlined Laric’s
mouth, and he spoke with a swollen, festering
tongue.
“You are mine, now, druid.” His skeletal claws
stroked her long black tresses, almost tenderly. He
ran a cracked fingernail, extending from a bony and
grotesque finger, along Robyn’s cheek, chuckling as
she winced and shuddered.
Feeling her muscles tense, he was ready when she
suddenly squirmed, trying to break free from his
grasp. Mercilessly, Laric the Bloodrider tightened
his grip upon her hair and forced her harshly down
upon the withers of the horse.
“Very nice,” he chortled, lisping thickly. He
squeezed his claws together on the back of her neck,
feeling warm blood break from her skin and flow
across his fingers. Robyn lay very still.
“Do not try to leave me, my dear,” he continued. A
thick, gurgling laugh bubbled in his rotted chest. “We
shall be together now, forever.”
He pulled Robyn’s hands behind her and bound
them tightly with a leather thong, hoisting her to a
sitting position in front of him on the steed.
“Ride with me, my . . . love.” He chuckled, his
breath hissing against her ear.
Laughing again, Laric spurred the gaunt horse.
The moon, nearly full, had risen higher now. White
mist had begun to condense in the evening air, and
the outline of the moon and its tears became hazy
and indistinct.
For two days, Laric knew, he must keep her alive,
avoiding the dogged pursuit. Two more nights, before
the moon rose full and powerful into the sky.
Then, under the baneful eye of that moon, her
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never bring myself to believe that he was dead!”
Canthus turned and licked the Calishite’s face.
Then he broke free and his head swiveled around the
courtyard and castle, cocked to the side, as if looking
for someone else. Knowing the dog could understand,
Tristan spoke to Canthus.
“She’s not here,” he said tightly, again mounting
the white stallion. “Let’s go get her back!”
* * * * *
The fiery, magic-driven hooves of the black horse
carried Laric and his prisoner for many miles before
the enchantment wore away. Even then, the powerful
steed raced forward with impressive speed. Moving
at a steady canter, the mount and his two riders
moved farther and farther from Caer Corwell.
Laric knew that there would be pursuit. In fact, he
suspected that both the druid’s friends and his own
former master would be vengefully inflamed. Neither
of these pursuers would be a match for him, though,
thought the ghoulish Rider.
The pale moon rose into the evening sky. Two more
nights, guessed Laric, and the moon would be full.
That did not seem like an impossibly long time.
Robyn moaned and stirred. Pleased, the Rider
looked down at his prisoner, roughly pulling her
shoulder back so that he could see her face. The
maiden’s skin had a ghostly pallor, and her left arm
was streaked with dried blood from the wounds
inflicted when Laric grabbed her. She winced in pain,
holding her eyes tightly closed.
Although the flesh and skin had rotted away from
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her, the druid frantically sniffed and hunted through
the ways of Myrloch Vale. The hours passed, and still
she searched.
Finally, she admitted defeat. The little bird darted
upward and began winging south and west. But
then, as she flew, the faint spoor of the trail she had
sought wafted to her senses on a gentle breeze. The
source of the spoor was near!
Chirping in excitement, Genna swooped low to
the ground. Just a few minutes, she told herself—
minutes that might make the difference between
life and death.
Soon Genna found him she sought, and she spoke
urgently for a few moments. Then she took to the air
again, determined now to find the Prince of Corwell.
* * * * *
The great clawed feet pounded the turf with a
relentless cadence as Kazgoroth pursued the traitorous
minion. The monster dropped to all fours, loping
somewhat awkwardly because of its small forelegs.
The long, forked tongue snaked from between bristling
rows of teeth, tasting the air. Very faintly, the
Beast detected the spoor of the druid, salivating at
the stimulus. But within its dark brain, Kazgoroth
had begun to worry.
For many months now it had been away from the
Darkwell, thriving upon the spreading of evil. But
now the forces of evil had suffered a dire reverse, and
the power of Kazgoroth was beginning to wane.
The Beast slowed to a trot, and then to a plodding
walk. The trail of the Bloodrider beckoned, mocking
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power would become his. Her life would end, as his
truly begin. And after he had drunk of her power, he
would need flee from nothing in the world again.
On, into the mist that slowly turned to a cool rainfall,
rode the Bloodrider and his helpless captive.
* * * * *
Genna Moonsinger turned her round and wrinkled
face toward the sky. The lines of age deepened
into a frown of anxiety. The moon was visible only
as a white outline against the fog.
The Great Druid stood poised for several minutes,
listening. Once, she jerked slightly, in agitation. A
watcher who could have moved close to her would
have seen pools of salty moisture collect at the corners
of her eyes.
“I understand,” she whispered finally.
In seconds Genna assumed one of her favorite
forms—that of the tiny swallow. The speed and
agility of the little body always caused her a thrill of
excitement, but now pleasure was subordinate to the
urgency of her mission.
Darting into the sky, she raced above the moors
and forests. She had much to do, and very little time.
Chirping, the bird flitted among the glades of Myrloch
Vale, seeking one that she knew would be near,
but she could find no trace of her quarry. Her worry
grew as she realized that she would soon be forced to
abandon this mission, in favor of another, yet more
urgent, task.
Still, she felt that she must allow herself more
time. Racing as fast as the tiny wings could propel
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after they had lost Canthus for the eighth or ninth
time, Tristan wearily acknowledged the inevitable.
“We had better break for some rest. We’ll never
catch him by wearing ourselves out.”
The others agreed, so they dismounted and
stretched on the ground to savor a few hours of sleep
before dawn. Keren whistled softly, and Sable glided
from the mist to settle onto a tall boulder beside the
bard. Unable to sleep, Tristan ate some dried beef
and drank wine, but even this could not relax him.
After what seemed an eternity, he noticed that the
heavy mist had begun to glow. Dawn was near.
“Let’s go,” he called. Stiff and sore, they climbed
onto their white horses once again.
The trail left by Laric’s stallion stood out like a line
of ink across a page, and they started at a canter to
warm their bodies and jolt their sleep-drugged
senses into alertness. For an hour they rode in
silence, and gradually the murky fog turned bright.
It did not disperse, however, and they traveled across
a featureless moor that vanished from sight a hundred
feet away.
Only the black trail stood out from the pale green
grass and the perpetual whiteness of the mist. They
followed in single file, Canthus leading, with Tristan
behind, then Keren, and Pawldo and Daryth bringing
up the rear on a large gelding.
Always beside the trail of the Bloodrider ran the
huge prints left by Kazgoroth the Beast in its constant
lope of pursuit. The heavy rear feet sank deeply
into the soft loam and left a clear, claw-studded outline.
Early in the morning they reached a parting,
where Kazgoroth turned east, while Laric and his
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the Beast’s weakness.
Snarling, the great head lifted high, its gaze fixed
with murderous intensity. Once again the powerful
rear legs propelled the huge body at a steady lope,
this time striding erect.
The forked tongue slipped forward again, tasting
the air. No longer did it seek the sweet scent of the
druid, nor the fetid spoor of Laric the usurper.
Instead it sought its primary source of nourishment—
the power that had brought the Beast into
the world.
Kazgoroth had no choice but to return to the Darkwell.
* * * * *
“Everyone stay close,” said Tristan, as the mist
closed thickly about them.
“Can you see Canthus?” asked Daryth, nearly
invisible only ten feet away.
“Barely,” answered the prince.
Darkness had fallen, and with it had come a mist
that threatened to cloak every feature of the terrain
from the pursuers.
Avalon and the other horses foamed and lathered
from the exertion of the long ride. Canthus loped
steadily before them, unfailing in his strength and
endurance.
Now, as darkness concealed the blackened trail of
Laric’s stallion, the hound kept on the track of the
spoor, and no torches were necessary.
For several more hours they pushed forward, talking
low to maintain contact with each other. Finally,
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younger woman’s.
“I know you, druid,” said the prince, remembering.
“You spoke to me that night at the Spring Festival!
But how can you command me, when Robyn—a
druid!—may still be alive?”
“She lives,” said the druid, and his heart leaped
involuntarily, “and she is not forsaken.”
“But—”
“She is a favored daughter, smiled upon by the goddess!
Can it be that you do not know this?” Her voice
now rose indignantly. “We shall do everything in our
power to save her.”
“I cannot—” Tristan prickled at the rebuke, about
to argue. Something within the druid’s eyes made
him hold his tongue.
“You are a worthy prince of the Ffolk,” said the
druid, more kindly. “One day soon you will be king, if
you can succeed in your final task. Now go, and do
what you must!”
Miserably, Tristan knew that she was right—the
Beast must be slain, and it was his duty to accomplish
that. He turned away slowly, and then he
remembered the staff.
“Wait!” he cried, untying the wooden rod from its
position behind his saddle. The druid smiled and
stepped closer as he held it out to her. “It’s hers. I
hope you can give it to her.”
“I will try,” she promised, and her smile soothed
Tristan’s torment.
With a whirl of her woolen cloak, she disappeared.
This time, a little bat darted through the mist, its
tiny wings straining in desperation. For all her brave
talk, Genna Moonsinger knew she had precious little
time.
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captive had continued north.
Tristan looked at the fork, for a moment uncertain.
The others stopped silently and watched as his face
suddenly twisted into a grimace of indecision.
To follow the Beast—the deadliest creature to walk
the Moonshaes—and slay it?
Or to hasten to the rescue of the woman he loved, if
she was still alive?
He thought of the sword at his side, sensing that if
he grasped its hilt he would be compelled to follow
Kazgoroth. Yet, could he responsibly do otherwise?
The Sword of Cymrych Hugh had been forged centuries
ago, for the purpose of slaying that very Beast.
If he did not follow its trail, the monster would soon
vanish into the vastness of Myrloch Vale, and the
Ffolk would have to suffer its evil once again.
Should Robyn be abandoned to her fate?
“I must go after her. The Beast will have to
wait,” he finally said, dropping his eyes to avoid
meeting their gazes. He was sickened at his own
words, and felt he had betrayed his companions,
his Ffolk, and the Sword of Cymrych Hugh.
The chirping of a swallow, diving close overhead,
distracted him. As the bird settled to the ground,
its shape shifted quickly in the curling mist. Tristan
started to reach for his sword, thinking the
Beast had come among them, but suddenly an old
woman stood before them. Her eyes sparkled, and
she smiled wisely at the prince. Slowly, her expression
turned sorrowful.
“You know what you must do, Prince of Corwell. If
you do not seek the Beast now, and destroy it before
it can rekindle its power, you will never have another
chance.” Her voice was cool and forceful, much like a
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grass. For a moment, Robyn allowed herself to hope
that they had stopped for rest.
Something in the Bloodrider’s fiery eyes told her
otherwise.
Laric pulled her off the horse onto a broad, flat
stone, cuffing her shoulder so that she fell, stunned,
upon the rock.
Then the mist parted very briefly, and the rays of
the full moon spilled unfiltered into the clearing.
Robyn saw Laric draw his stained, blackened sword.
Even through the tarnish the weapon seemed to
burn with a deep corruption, which hurt her eyes as
she looked upon the blade.
The Bloodrider turned to her, weapon upraised, his
face distorted in a horrible leer. She tugged frantically
on the bonds restraining her wrists, but she
was held too securely.
Sensing his purpose, she could do nothing to save
herself. She resolved that the creature would not
know of her terror, and she lifted her proud face
toward Laric in an expression of disdain.
As he reached for her, a deathly chuckle bubbling
from his chest, she spat in his face.
* * * * *
Newt’s tiny claws gripped the horn of the unicorn,
holding on for dear life as Kamerynn raced through
the tangled ways of the forest. Always the little
dragon maintained the flow of illusory magic, reproducing
the world so that the blind creature could once
again proudly inhabit his domain.
Newt had not understood the message that the
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* * * * *
Robyn grew more alert through the long, fog-bound
day, but her body still seemed gripped by a paralyzing
weakness, She could raise her head and look
around, but she could not turn to see behind her. She
had lost all feeling in her hands, for the numbing
leather thong cut cruelly into her wrists.
A smell of death and foulness seemed to surround
her, rising from the bodies of the horse and Rider.
Every so often, Laric would lean close and say
something unintelligible to her, and then his rank,
polluted breath would make her head spin with
nausea.
Even more revolting than his breath were his cold
and skeletal fingers. Occasionally, he would encircle
Robyn’s waist with those hands, or run a long,
leisurely caress down her back or across her shoulders.
Each time he did this, Robyn shuddered in revulsion.
She wished for death to release her from this
nightmare but death did not come, and the nightmare
stayed the same.
All during the long day, the fog hung thick and low
across the moor, as if the goddess could not bear to
open the curtain upon the play enacted there. Yet the
fog would provide no protection for the actors.
The long day of riding ended with dusk, when a
patch of light rose against the clouds to the east, and
Robyn knew that the moon was full. Laric reined in
the black horse and dismounted. Roughly, he pulled
his prisoner to the ground and pushed her across the
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23
THE SONG OF KEREN
THE BAT DARTED through the mist purposefully,
soaring above the blackened track that marred
and tore the ground. Night fell with frightening suddenness,
surrounding her with tendrils of fog. Menacing
shadows moved the boundaries of her vision.
The Bloodrider had ridden impossibly fast—she
could not understand how or why. The full moon,
rising above the fog, did little to penetrate the mist,
or to remind the druid of the benign presence of the
goddess. Genna Moonsinger, Great Druid though she
was, felt frightened and alone on this night of foreboding.
From somewhere in the mists before her, a shrill
female voice, laden with terror, screamed through
the night.
* * * * *
Tristan and his companions rode steadily along the
path of the Beast. As darkness fell, they were forced
to dismount, since the trail left by Kazgoroth was
much less obvious than that left by the Bloodrider.
Still, Canthus had no difficulty following the spoor.
467
Great Druid brought to Kamerynn, but her words
filled the unicorn with fanatical energy. Shivering,
the faerie dragon struggled to retain his perch and
still work his magic.
Never before had Newt performed such sustained
illusion, and the effort now brought a throbbing ache
to his little scaled head. Normally, some errant butterfly,
or toothsome frog, would have long since
diverted Newt’s attention. Instead, he rode diligently
and attentively, ignoring the pain in his head in order
to bring sight to the blinded unicorn.
For a long night, and an even longer day, the pair
raced over the mist-wreathed moor The encloaking
mist surrounded and assailed them, and even Newt
found his bearings difficult to maintain. Finally
night—the night of the full moon—fell again, and at
last fatigue forced the unicorn to slow his resolute
pace.
Around them, the fog seemed to press heavily. The
mist felt very cool, and exuded a sense of danger.
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The Bloodrider laughed harshly at Robyn’s futile
gesture of defiance, and suddenly his eyes grew
white hot with bloodlust. The image changed so
quickly, and so frightfully, that she could not suppress
a shriek of terror.
A skeletal hand grasped her ankle. She kicked at
Laric’s frail-looking chest, but her foot was deflected
by an invisible force as from a stone wall. Twisting,
she tried to escape, but her hands were bound tight,
and he held her fast.
Now Laric held her flat on her back, against the
stone, with one clawlike hand pressing hard against
her chest. She could barely breathe, she could not
move, she was helpless. With the other hand, the
ghoulish creature lifted his sword high. The sinister
weapon rested directly above her neck.
Brown spittle leaked from Laric’s cracked lips, as
he drooled in anticipation of his feast. He began to
lower the blade.
Suddenly brilliant flashes of light exploded
through the mist. Laric’s black stallion screamed and
reared in panic, flailing the air with his deadly
hooves.
The explosions of light sent barbs of color arcing in
the sky, lighting the scene first in red, then blue, then
green.
A white shape galloped from the mist, snorting in
anger, and her heart filled with hope.
“Kamerynn!” she called, immediately recognizing
the mighty creature. “Look out!”
The black stallion lunged forward, breaking his
tether, and driving his forehooves into the unicorn’s
flank. Kamerynn turned clumsily, striking with his
horn but missing the stallion by a wide margin. Sud-
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469
The moorhound loped ahead, disappearing into the
mist, and then stopped and waited for the men and
horses to catch up. When they did, the dog bounded
forward again, quickly swallowed by the fog.
A deep and hollow sense of loneliness gripped Tristan.
“Did I make the right choice?” he asked the bard,
miserably. Yet he already knew the answer: It was
not the right choice for the heart.
“She’ll be all right,” said Keren, in a quietly comforting
tone. “The druid spoke the truth—she carries
the divine blessing of the goddess.”
“But I turned from her trail!” The prince heard his
own voice take on a wail of grief.
“But you are doing the right thing, all the same.”
Little comforted, the prince rode in silence. Darkness
soon surrounded them, and the mist grew even
thicker, if that were possible. Faintly, they could
make out the patch of light where the full moon—a
moon of dire omen, Tristan felt certain—rose into the
late summer sky.
“Should we stop and sleep for a bit?” the prince
asked his companions, though he did not feel tired.
”I don’t think I can sleep,” declared Daryth, peering
forward to keep Canthus in sight.
“Me either,” added Pawldo.
Keren remained silent, but his eyes, like the Calishite’s,
stared resolutely ahead. Silently, they continued
forward through the cold and oppressive
night.
* * * * *
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Laric’s hollow, liquid laugh was frightful in its
supreme arrogance. “You seek to slay me, druid—but
you cannot slay that which is already dead!”
With a snarl, he leaped forward, but Genna
stepped back quickly and uttered another casting,
raising the power of the goddess’s own body into a
tool of the druid.
The ground below Laric’s feet shifted and roiled,
and the Rider tripped. Rolling across the heaving
turf, he leaped to his feet and snarled at the shape of
a creature, vaguely humanlike but composed of the
elemental materials of the earth itself, that rose from
the ground. It rose with a ripping sound, smelling
strongly of moist dirt, and lashed out with an
earthen fist, trying to crush the ghoulish figure.
With incredible agility, Laric jumped aside and
managed to hack a great chunk of dirt from the earth
elemental. Genna, concentrating, commanded her
creature to attack. Another clublike fist sprouted
from a different spot on the creature’s trunk, and this
one smashed into Laric’s chest.
The Bloodrider sailed backward, crashing into
Robyn’s stone and slumping to the ground. But in a
second, Laric sprang to his feet again. He charged
the elemental and marked a dazzling series of
slashes with his sword. Each blow struck off a piece
of the creature, until shortly it collapsed into motionless,
mundane rubble.
Still snarling, Laric turned his deathshead gaze
upon Genna Moonsinger, Slowly the Rider advanced,
extending a gruesome claw as Genna stumbled backward.
Suddenly, the druid tripped upon a hummock
of grass and fell.
Robyn gasped, and at the same moment felt the
DARKWALKER ON MOONSHAE
471
denly, next to the fighting steeds, Robyn saw the
little figure of the faerie dragon, Newt, blinking in
and out of sight in agitation.
A shadowy image appeared next to the stallion,
mimicking the black horse in appearance and movement.
Now Kamerynn struck more surely, the ivory
horn cutting a deep gash in the steed’s flank.
Laric turned toward the fight, momentarily forgetting
the maiden stretched on the rock. He crept
toward the unicorn, raising his longsword.
“Kamerynn! Newt! Look out!” shouted Robyn, as
the Bloodrider hurled himself into the fray. But her
warning came too late, and the flickering blade
caught the dragon unawares. With a tiny, highpitched
scream of pain, Newt dropped to the earth.
Immediately, the colored lights and the illusionary
vision of the black horse vanished. Kamerynn was
blind once again. The unicorn stepped backward, as
if confused, and the stallion charged him savagely.
Laric, too, advanced toward Kamerynn, readying the
fatal blow.
“Stop, spawn of the Beast!” The voice rang harshly
through the clearing, and Robyn turned to see a
plump old woman scurry from the mist. There was
nothing pleasant or kind about her voice, however.
“Now, see if you can stand against the power of the
goddess!”
Genna Moonsinger held her finger before her,
pointing at the breast of the Bloodrider. She called
upon the power of the goddess, asking for the use of
her most baneful spell. A crackling beam of light
sizzled from her finger, into and through the body of
the Bloodrider, only to disappear into the night
beyond.
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chanting of Robyn’s voice carried toward him.
And then the Bloodrider cried in pain and dropped
the weapon, which glowed red, then white, before
turning liquid and running into the ground. With
Newt clapping in glee, Robyn rose from the stone and
faced the Bloodrider, meeting his hate-filled gaze
with her own look of pride and determination.
For an instant, the little faerie dragon disappeared.
Then he popped back into sight, shouting,
“I’ve got it back! My magic’s fixed!”
Immediately the clearing shimmered as blue and
orange light streaked through the mist. The image of
the black stallion appeared, confidently mirroring
the steed as it leaped at the hapless unicorn.
But now Kamerynn perceived the image and
dodged the stallion’s murderous assault. As the stallion
stumbled past, the unicorn reared high, his
heavy forehooves landing with crushing force upon
the stallion’s forehead. The horse dropped instantly
to the ground, dead.
With a gurgle of choking hysteria the Bloodrider
lunged toward Robyn. The young druid tried to break
away across the wide stone, but the ghoulish creature
met her with horrifying speed. His eyes seething
like the guts of a volcano, Laric’s clawlike hands
reached for Robyn’s throat.
And then Laric’s death scream split the night,
deafening Robyn with its shrill intensity. The Bloodrider
soared into the air above Robyn as the unicorn’s
horn emerged from his chest, clean and white
as bone.
The wasted, rotted body tossed like a rag doll upon
the impaling horn as the unicorn bucked and reared.
Finally Kamerynn threw his head back and kicked
DARKWALKER ON MOONSHAE
473
grip of tiny claws upon her leg.
She looked down to see Newt scamper up and
perch beside her. He remained visible for several seconds.
“You poor thing,” she whispered. One of his butterfly-
like wings had been severed, and he moved
tortuously because of a long gash in his neck.
“Why do you not help them?” queried the dragon,
tilting his head toward the fight. Genna had rolled
away from the Rider, but could not get to her feet
before Laric closed in again.
“My hands,” replied Robyn, turning her back to
reveal her bound wrists. Newt looked positively
enlightened and in an instant had set upon the
thongs, chewing energetically.
Across the clearing, Kamerynn grunted painfully
as the black stallion once again crashed into his
unprotected flank. Newt paused in his task and
squinted solemnly at the fight, sudden tears welling
in his eyes. “I can’t do it!” he sobbed. “My magic is
broken!”
“Hurry and untie me,” urged Robyn. “And there’s
still hope.”
Again the unicorn cried out in pain, and then
Laric’s howl of triumph rose above all. He leaped
toward the Great Druid, dropping his sword in his
eagerness to sink his claws into her flesh. As he
grabbed her, however, he found himself holding a
coiling viper. The snake’s wedged head darted forward
to bury long fangs in the rotted flesh of Laric’s
arm.
“Bah,” cried the Rider, disdainfully throwing the
serpent to the ground. He swept up his sword,
aiming a killing blow. Suddenly, the confident
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“Of course! You don’t know about charging it! And
tonight, of all nights, you can find out,” Genna held
the staff toward the full moon, chanting a rolling
phrase. The words entered Robyn’s mind and would
stay there, forever. And once again the staff hummed
with power.
“Every month, my dear, during the full moon, you
can bless it with the might of the goddess. One time,
each month, it will bring forth her power at your
command. Use it wisely, for it is the blood of our
Mother herself!”
Quickly the druid told Robyn about Tristan and
the others, their pursuit of the Beast. “Go to him!
Ride like the wind, girl!”
“But ride what?” questioned Robyn, not daring to
guess what Genna meant.
In answer, Kamerynn trotted to her side and knelt
upon the soft loam. Reverently, feeling a sense of
deep awe, Robyn climbed onto the unicorn’s broad
back. Scampering like a squirrel, Newt leaped to
Kamerynn’s shoulders, then his head, and soon
perched like a figurehead upon the great horn.
Before Robyn could say farewell to the Great
Druid, Kamerynn sprang forward. In seconds, they
vanished into the mist, but the paleness of the light
was augmented by the many colors Newt added to
the illusionary fog.
* * * * *
The Beast reached the Darkwell and paused in
shock. The wide, polluted pool it remembered had
been reduced to a small pool of scum in the center
DARKWALKER ON MOONSHAE
475
his forelegs toward the full moon. His whinny of triumph
resounded through the night as the body of the
Bloodrider sailed into the mist to fall, broken and forever
useless, among the rocks.
Robyn stood, frozen, for several seconds. She saw
Genna limping toward her, and the two women collapsed
into each other’s arms for a minute, breathing
heavily. A slender form hesitantly crawled up
Robyn’s leg, and she hoisted Newt to cradle him in
her arms.
“My, my,” clucked Genna, inspecting the wounds
upon the little dragon. She murmured a low prayer,
stroking the soft scales. Robyn’s eyes widened as she
saw the gash along Newt’s neck heal and a stubby
bud appear over the scar of the lost wing.
“Now now, my little hero,” whispered Genna as
Newt wriggled in delight up to Robyn’s shoulder.
“You must treat that wing gently—it will take some
time to grow back.
“But until then, you’ve someone to carry you,” said
the druid, sadly turning to Kamerynn. She scratched
the unicorn’s broad forehead and stroked the ruined
eyes. “Just a little longer, my child, and then you can
rest.”
Genna’s manner became businesslike.
“Come come, child! You must ride now, while there
is still time!” She took Robyn by the arm. “I almost
forgot! Your prince gave this to me, for you.” She took
the staff from across her back and offered it to
Robyn.
Robyn took the shaft of wood reverently, though it
seemed as if the fire of the goddess’s power had been
extinguished from it. Suddenly, Genna snatched it
from her.
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against ambush.
“The fens!” cried the Calishite. “Do you recognize
them?”
They stopped, briefly, upon a low rise, overlooking
the expanse of black ponds, thorny thickets, and
soggy marshland. Somewhere in the distance, they
sensed, lay their destination. Restlessly, Tristan
looked back along their path. The monster was near,
and he knew that he would soon face a climactic
showdown, yet these thoughts were far from the forefront
of his mind. One question forced all other
thoughts from him.
Where was Robyn?
* * * * *
“I’ll try green now! Aren’t you getting tired of red
and blue all the time? I know I am—I think green
will be a nice change of—”
“I’m afraid I’m too tired to pay much attention,”
apologized Robyn, opening her eyes at the sound of
Newt’s voice. The gentle pacing of the unicorn had
lulled her to sleep.
“Just for a little while?” pleaded Newt. “Can’t you
watch?” The little dragon still perched upon the unicorn’s
ivory horn, peering forward into the night.
Involuntarily, his mouth opened in a wide yawn, but
he quickly snapped his tiny jaws shut.
“Now look what you made me do!” he pouted, turning
his back toward Robyn in a huff. She sighed, but
let the smooth rocking of her mount settle her back
toward sleep.
The unicorn moved more gracefully than any
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of a brown wasteland. Kazgoroth’s eyes took in the
shattered dam, and its brain thought vaguely of
the failure of the Firbolgs.
For a moment, the Beast regretted the sudden disaster
he had wrought upon those same Firbolgs. If
they lived now, their punishment would be far worse
than mere death.
A bubble broke from the black sludge in the middle
of the pond, and the Beast crawled through the mud
to wallow there. The power was not great, but could
still be felt. The goddess had not yet been able to
reclaim her Moonwell.
Slithering deep into the muck, until its entire body
lay buried, Kazgoroth began to feed once again on
the power of the Darkwell.
* * * * *
In the harsh days of pursuit, always, it seemed,
through the cloaking, chilling fog, Canthus never
strayed from the trail of the Beast. It led through a
low pass entering Myrloch Vale, and from there, due
east. It was Keren who realized that the monster’s
destination was none other then the Fens of the
Fallon.
“My prince,” asked the bard, “do you recall a hidden
sense of menace there? A presence that could be felt
even more acutely than the threat of the Firbolgs?”
“Perhaps you’re right,” responded Tristan.
A thundering of hooves called their attention to the
rear, as Daryth and Pawldo caught up with them.
The pair, both upon the sturdy gelding, had been
riding well behind Tristan and Keren as a precaution
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would I be talking about? You really haven’t gotten
much smarter, you know.”
“Yes,” said Robyn, laughing, “I think we’ll find
him soon.”
“Are you going to be his queen? He’s a king or
something, I know, and, well, I think it would be
just delightful if you two humans did what you
do, you know, as a king and queen. You really
should, you know!”
Robyn laughed again, and was surprised to feel
her face growing red.
The unicorn stepped into a murky pool, wading
through water that reached nearly to his belly.
Robyn’s heart pounded with anticipation, and she
eagerly examined the fens before her. Kamerynn
sprang onto a patch of dry ground, and crossed a
sunlit clearing.
There she found her prince.
* * * * *
“I guess we should move on,” mumbled Tristan.
Giving a last look over his shoulder, he remounted
Avalon and turned to regard the festering marsh.
“Wait!” said Daryth, holding up his hand.
Branches rustled and parted a hundred feet away.
At first, the prince thought that a large white horse
struggled from the woods, but then he recognized the
unicorn and its rider, even through the sudden tears
that threatened to blind him.
“Hi, guys! Boy, are we glad to see you! Hey, wait for
us!” Newt chattered at them from the unicorn’s horn,
as Kamerynn lurched out of the muck and trotted up
DARKWALKER ON MOONSHAE
479
horse—Robyn felt as if she rode in a comfortable boat
along a smooth-flowing river. Suddenly she jerked
awake, seeing an ocean of darkness before them.
“Newt! Wake up!”
The fairie dragon lifted his head, but by then
Kamerynn had reached the limit of the last illusion.
The unicorn stopped sharply. Robyn fell forward,
clutching the broad neck and holding on, but Newt
lost his hold and sailed into the darkness, landing
with an outraged squeal.
“Hey!” squeaked the tiny voice, indignantly.
“What’s the big idea? That’s no way to treat somebody
who’s been helping you out all day! Why, you big
lummox!” The dragon pranced up to the unicorn,
glaring at him.
Robyn laughed and slipped to the ground. “I think
we could all use a little sleep. Why don’t we rest here
until morning?”
The dragon curled up quickly, and even the unicorn
seemed to sense the purpose of her words, for he
knelt and rested his travel-weary muscles. Robyn,
leaning against the broad flank, easily fell into a
refreshing slumber.
The following days passed quickly, a blur of pursuit
as the valiant unicorn sped over the moor.
Somehow the unicorn knew the path to follow, and
he led them unerringly toward the Fens of the
Fallon. Robyn, too, recognized the dank reaches and
sensed the nearness of her destination.
“Do you think we’ll find him soon?” asked Newt,
peering forward.
“Find who?” asked Robyn. She had not talked to
the faerie dragon about their destination.
“Your prince, naturally! Why, who in the world else
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the thicket, following a narrow and tangled trail,
Robyn heard a whimpering noise behind her. She
turned to see Newt, left behind, perched upon
Kamerynn’s horn, plaintively calling to her.
Suddenly, the little faerie dragon leaped to the
ground and scampered after her, only to pause fretfully
and dart back to the unicorn. Finally, he made
up his mind and bounded into the forest, whimpering
until he caught up with Robyn. She hoisted his shuddering
little body to her shoulder.
And then the Darkwell lay before them.
“Can you feel it?” Robyn whispered, giving a shiver.
She pointed at the center of the sludge-lined pond.
“There!”
“Yes,” nodded Keren, removing his harp from its
shoulder sling. “Shall I call to the creature? I suspect
that the longer it stays down there, the more powerful
it becomes!”
“Wait,” cautioned Tristan.
“I’ll get around to the other side of the pond,” volunteered
Daryth.
“Good. We should all spread out,” suggested the
prince.
“You, with the Sword of Cymrych Hugh, must get
close,” said the bard. “The rest of us should try to distract
it so that you can strike a free blow.”
Robyn looked at Tristan, her face pale, but she
nodded with the rest of them.
They readied the attack. Daryth circled around the
pond, concealing himself in the bushes on the far
side. Keren strung his bow and leaned his weapon
against a tree. Pawldo scrambled into the high
branches of a tree, and placed several arrows within
easy reach.
DARKWALKER ON MOONSHAE
481
the low rise toward them.
Tristan jumped to the ground and ran to the unicorn
as Robyn slid from her mount, falling right into
his arms.
“I can’t believe . . .” she started to say, but her own
tears choked her.
The prince said nothing, just held on for dear life.
He even refused to relinquish his hold on his Robyn
when Keren and Daryth tried to give her warm,
happy hugs.
Finally Robyn freed herself enough to turn and
smile at Newt, and then she kissed the prince again.
The faerie dragon clapped happily, exclaiming, “I love
a happy ending!”
Finally, Pawldo, holding the reins of the three
horses, said, “Let’s get a move on. You two will have
plenty of time for that when this is over!”
Tristan sighed and held Robyn for one more second
before relaxing his arms. As the other men went back
to the horses, he looked straight into her eyes.
“I had no idea how much I loved you,” he whispered,
awe in his voice.
Reluctantly, he climbed to Avalon’s back. Choosing
their path carefully, they entered the fens following
the great moorhound. Canthus had no difficulty finding
the trail even here, where it commonly entered a
foul-smelling pool only to emerge from the opposite
side.
They left the white horses and the unicorn in a
bright meadow that somehow sprouted wildflowers
in the midst of the fens’ decay.
Pawldo and Daryth now led the way, after Canthus,
with Keren in the middle and Robyn and
Tristan to the rear. As they forced their way into
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of the Beast, the prince stared in awe and was unable
to move.
The thick shoulders and the two forelegs broke
free of the mire as the creature grew. It blinked
slowly, showing mud-stained but fiery red eyes,
and looked around for the source of the discord
that had disturbed it.
Keren was the first to react. As the monster
climbed from the sludge, the bard dropped the
harp into the mud at his feet, swept up his bow,
and drew the weapon with the nock of an arrow
pressed tightly against his cheek.
Kazgoroth loomed above Tristan, the mudspattered
jaws spread wide. The whitened flesh
inside the Beast’s mouth cut a garishly bright
streak across the blackened, muddy body. Above
the mouth, two red eyes glinted with cunning
and determination. The eyes focused on the
prince.
Keren loosed his arrow, and the missile thunked
into the Beast’s left eye, puncturing the orb in a
shower of gore. The monster bellowed—a deep
rumbling cry that shook the roots of the tallest
trees. Then the baleful gate of its lone remaining
eye fixed upon the bard.
Even as Keren whipped another arrow onto the
string and began to draw the weapon, Kazgoroth’s
jaws opened wide. A crackling beam of hot magic
exploded from the monster’s mouth, striking Keren
in the chest and flowing around him until the bard’s
rigid body was outlined in a blazing light.
A loud explosion rocked the pond, and the bard was
gone. All that remained was his harp, lying in the
mud where he had dropped it.
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483
Tristan and Robyn stood together as their companions
deployed for the confrontation. He felt a curious
sense of detachment now that the most important
thing had been accomplished—his reunion with
Robyn. Hesitantly, he turned toward her.
“I was thinking . . .” whispered Tristan. He looked
nervously at Robyn, then away again. “That is, I
would like to be king of this land, someday. I know
this now. And, if I should be fortunate enough to win
the crown, well . . .”
“Let’s talk later,” she said, but the answer to his
unspoken question shone in her eyes.
She seemed to be full of peace, and the prince
envied her calm.
“Good luck,” Robyn whispered, kissing him again.
Then she took her staff and walked to her position.
Tristan drew the Sword of Cymrych Hugh, and the
weapon seemed to hum with anticipation. He slogged
forward, each footstep sinking to the knees. He
nodded at Keren.
The bard struck a jarring chord from his harp. It
was not music—it sounded more as if he were trying
to tune a badly warped instrument. Again, and once
more, the harsh notes jangled through the heavy air.
The mud in the center of the pond started to shift
and bubble as if a great upheaval had occurred
within it. Gradually, the center of the mass began to
rise, and then mud flowed from a mountainous form
that slowly became visible. Black, fetid muck flowed
quickly off the huge, scaly body.
Tristan stopped short, as the monster rose above
him. “You have grown,” he whispered, unconsciously.
Indeed, the Beast towered nearly twice as large as it
had been in the castle. Stunned at the awesome size
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Tristan felt a growing sense of despair.
He lurched toward the monster, slipping and
falling in the mud. Desperately, he tried to sink the
potent blade into the monster’s body, but he could not
scramble quickly enough.
Newt, perched upon Robyn’s shoulder, was chanting
one magical casting after another. An illusionary
ball of fire exploded around the monster, and then a
plague of flying scorpions appeared to attack it. The
illusions seemed quite real to Tristan, but Kazgoroth
paid no attention to them.
Tristan struggled toward the Beast. The sword
continued to tug him forward, and he could feel the
desire to destroy evil flow through the silvery blade.
He turned briefly, and saw Robyn gesture him away
as she raised the staff and chanted a spell.
A moment, and then another, passed, and still
nothing happened. Kazgoroth turned toward the
druid, the wide nostrils twitching in the still air.
Suddenly, the ground and water of the Darkwell
crackled, as towering sheets of flame leaped from the
earth to curl around the monster’s body.
Kazgoroth screamed in pain and stumbled, batting
wildly at the flames, but the fire surged all around it.
Suddenly the Beast shuddered, as if in deep concentration,
ignoring the searing flames that scarred and
scorched its scales.
Quickly, a black fog bubbled from the center of the
Darkwell, extinguishing the flames and spreading
across the ground. In seconds, the fire had vanished.
Robyn stared weakly, not believing the ease with
which her magic had been countered. The monster
lunged in her direction, as Tristan struggled to put
himself between them. The mud pulled at his feet,
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485
“No!” screamed Robyn, staring in disbelief and
horror.
The prince felt a cold stab of fear, for the Beast was
mightier than he had imagined. But he also felt the
burning heat of his own fury, and he turned back
toward the towering shape.
“I’ll kill you,” he said evenly, stepping forward
through the clutching mire. Each footstep slurped
loudly as he pulled his boots free, and the progress
seemed agonizingly slow.
Canthus raced through the mud to bite at one of
the monster’s feet. Kazgoroth ignored the savage
hound, and turned to find another two-legged opponent.
Pawldo reacted quickly. Balancing on a high limb,
he let an arrow fly. The tiny missile struck the monster’s
other eye with enough force to puncture it.
Kazgoroth, now blinded and shrieking with rage,
turned vehemently toward the source of the new
attack. A black shadow dropped from above as the
falcon Sable tore at the monster’s face.With a sweep
of its mighty claw, the Beast sent the bird spiraling
to the ground, trailing a cloud of feathers.
Kazgoroth lunged forward, one clawed foot splashing
into the mire beside the prince. Tristan swung
with all his strength, and the enchanted blade hissed
through Kazgoroth’s flesh, but the Beast was not distracted
from its next target.
Kazgoroth seized the branches of Pawldo’s tree
with its foreclaws. The powerful shoulders clenched,
and the trunk broke free from the ground. Pawldo
twisted and struggled, trapped in the high branches,
but could not break free. Clutching and gasping, he
vanished below the surface of the pond.
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Black blood ran from the wound in its neck, but
Kazgoroth still threatened. The Beast stopped
moving for a second, as its forked tongue and scaly
nostrils twitched in the humid air. Slowly, the great
head swiveled around to fix upon Robyn, transfixed
by the tableau.
“Tristan, my beloved.”
The prince heard the voice in his ears, through the
haze of his abject despair. He shook his head, clearing
it slightly, and heard Robyn continue speaking,
very quietly.
“Be careful, my prince, and think! Control!”
The message finally penetrated to the deepest
fount of his emotion, and a warm feeling of calm
spread over him. He breathed slowly, and deeply, and
felt strength flow once again into his tired muscles.
Standing up, he stepped carefully through the mud
toward Robyn, his sword tingling with prospect. At
last he turned to look up at the monster, for Kazgoroth
had begun to move again.
A clawed foot kicked Canthus out of the Beast’s
path, and the loyal dog crashed into a tree trunk
before sliding to the ground. The forked tongue of
Kazgoroth snaked forward with appetite, as it
seemed to sense the druid before it.
But between the monster and the woman stood the
Prince of Corwell. As the Beast stepped toward him,
Tristan crouched low. The bulging gut, smooth and
white like a snake’s belly, swung over him.
And Tristan struck.
The Sword of Cymrych Hugh parted the white skin
easily, and hissed with gratification as it sank into
the warm bowels of the Beast. The blade grew hot as
the power of the goddess flooded through the
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tripping him in his haste. Splashing to his hands and
knees, he watched helplessly as the creature
approached the woman he loved.
Wrenching to his feet again, his vision clouding in
fear, again he slogged toward the Beast, and again he
fell.
Kazgoroth was looming over Robyn. Then, the
prince saw a flash in the bushes across the pond, and
Daryth ran forward, his silver scimitar extended.
Tristan stared in amazement as the nimble Calishite
leaped across the monster’s scaly tail onto its rough,
plated back.
As if he were climbing a field of boulders, the Calishite
leaped from one horny scale to the next,
climbing all the way to the monster’s neck in a
single, fluid charge. There, he raised his arm, and
then buried his sword to the hilt at the base of Kazgoroth’s
brain.
With a bellow of sheer rage the Beast reared backward,
and Daryth flew through the air to land, senseless,
at the shore of the pond. Canthus again lunged
forward, but the dog could do nothing to slow the
Beast but nip at its giant trunk.
Tristan finally made contact, stumbling into the
form of the monster, hacking wildly with the Sword
of Cymrych Hugh. A great gash was torn in its leg,
but the wound did not seem to impair it seriously,
and Kazgoroth lurched away. Suddenly, the great tail
lashed around to smash Tristan’s back and send him
sprawling to the ground.
Gasping for life, Tristan spun around and tried to
leap to his feet, but the prolonged exertion had completely
drained him. Panting, he knelt in the mud
and looked up at the monster.
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Somehow, Robyn knew, the blood of the Beast had
given the goddess the power to cleanse the pollution
from the Darkwell, purifying it once again
into the Moonwell of old.
As the flames spread, they left behind a small pool
of crystalline water, surrounded by a smooth and
grassy bank. A finger of fire reached for the motionless
body of Daryth, wrapping him in white, and then
withdrawing. As it left, the Calishite sat up and
looked around, scratching his head curiously.
The white light burned away the tree that had
dragged Pawldo into the pond, and as the glow subsided,
Robyn saw the halfling, standing knee deep in
clear water, and looking around in amazement.
And in the center of the pool, the Beast’s body had
vanished entirely. The silvery surface broke apart
and Tristan stood, sputtering, waist deep in the
pond.With a cry of elation, he ran toward the shore,
meeting Robyn as she splashed toward him. Laughing
and crying at the same time, they hugged each
other and fell headlong into the water.
Canthus bounded around the shore, barking, while
Newt rode the moorhound’s broad back and chattered
insults at the spot where the Beast had disappeared.
A last tendril of white fire flickered from the pond,
seeking and swirling about the spot where Keren
had stood. The flame probed and twisted, as if
searching, but all it could find was the harp, lying
now on green grass.
The white fire settled into the strings and frame of
the harp, and for a moment the clearing resounded
with unspeakably beautiful music. Then the flames
surged to a brightness that seemed to equal the
DARKWALKER ON MOONSHAE
489
weapon, wracking the corrupted body. Tristan
stepped quickly back, but not before the sloshing contents
of the monster’s insides spilled over the prince’s
own body.
Gagging and choking, Tristan felt himself surrounded
by filth and poison.
His skin burned as caustic acids poured over him,
and polluted gases filled his lungs. He was aware of
the monster stumbling and bellowing.
Then everything stopped.
* * * * *
Robyn gasped in shock as she saw Tristan fall
beneath the flailing body of the Beast. The sinuous
tail, the great jaws, and the powerful legs all
thrashed mindlessly in the center of the Darkwell.
Kazgoroth’s body settled into the mire, and the
Beast’s struggles finally ceased. The great, gaping
wound in its belly continued to pour the creature’s
essence into the sludge at the bottom of the Darkwell.
As the monster’s lifeblood mixed with the stuff of
the Darkwell, a strange metamorphosis began.
A small spot of light burned through the surface of
the sludge. The light began to swirl, and the spot
grew until a burst of white flame shot upward from
the spot where Kazgoroth had collapsed. The flame
was cool and clean—Robyn knew instinctively that
this was the power of the goddess manifested upon
the world.
The white flame burst higher, and the brightness
spread across the filth and mire in the pond.
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soon restore their homes and fields, and their heritage
would be renewed.
And she thought of the bard, whose songs had so
soothed her. The wind spread throughout the lands of
the Moonshaes, carrying the enchanted memories of
the great Keren’s harp. And wherever there were
bards, a new song was learned—a song of evils, and
heroes, and lovers, and death. It was a song of rare
beauty, a song that would be sung for many centuries.
It was a song by the greatest bard of them all. And
though Keren no longer lived, his legacy of song rode
the wind across the Moonshaes, and all the bards of
the land shared in its sweet refrain.
* * * * *
The trees at the edge of the Moonwell parted shortly
after sunset, and a hooded figure advanced cautiously
to the muddy shore. Slowly it probed the pond
with a long staff, hesitantly stepping into the water.
Trahern of Oakvale had suffered much, this
summer, because of the enchantment of the Beast. The
blessings of the goddess had been stripped from him,
and he no longer had the protection of his master. But
now he had nothing else to turn to, and so he sought
any tiny fragment of his master to hold and cherish.
The staff clicked against something hard, and the
corrupted druid pulled a black chunk from the bowels
of the pond. Gratified, he clasped the skull-sized
object—black, like a lump of coal—to his breast.
Cackling and gibbering, Trahern turned from the
pond and lurched into the forest. He was completely
DARKWALKER ON MOONSHAE
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sun’s, and blinked out, leaving the companions staring
at each other in amazement.
The harp was gone.
* * * * *
The travelers rode wearily toward Corwell, trailing
an empty horse—a forlorn reminder that their
mission had been not without cost. But they rode, at
last, without urgency.
Behind, the wilderness of Myrloch Vale harbored a
tiny sentry, perched upon the horn of a gallant and
proud unicorn. The watcher, a small dragon, wept
unashamedly at the departure of his friends. Then,
the unicorn turned into the woods and the little
dragon once again showed him the path.
Daryth and Pawldo in the lead followed Canthus
as the moorhound raced through the countryside.
Tristan rode slowly beside Robyn, holding the hand
of his lady.
* * * * *
The goddess smiled, and her smile was the warmth
of the late summer sun. Her breath was the smooth
caress of the wind that cleansed the countryside. She
saw the fleet of northmen sail from the shores of Corwell,
and she ignored them for she had no need for
vengeance.
She wept for the deaths of her people, and for the
destruction that had been wrought upon her lands.
But she knew that the Ffolk were strong, and would
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mad. The nearness of the goddess he had formerly
served had driven the last vestiges of sanity from his
shattered mind. Clutching his dark possession, the
old man stumbled into the forest.
And with him he carried the heart of Kazgoroth.
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