Prophet of Moonshae

11

Danrak pressed cautiously through the sodden, barren woods. His steps rustled the dead twigs littering the ground, but he knew total silence was impossible in a thicket such as this. Short stalks bristled with dry, leafless limbs, and withered branches lay everywhere underfoot.

Normally such conditions would have held Danrak motionless-at least, until he had carefully studied the terrain. But so great was his current compulsion that he ignored his usual precautions in his urgency to reach the place that beckoned him. Around him stretched the wasteland of Myrloch Vale, a place of swamps and fetid fens, of dead trees and restless, prowling packs of firbolgs. Dire wolves, too, roamed here, and had made Danrak's life a nightmare of constant flight and eternal vigilance.

Yet he had sworn an oath to stay here, and so he would! More than twenty years earlier, he and many other young apprentices had joined the ranks of druidhood. They hadn't been ready to participate in the battles against darkness that had then raged in the vale, so the Great Druid had sent them to places of safekeeping.

Danrak had gone to the idyllic valley of Synnoria, home of the Llewyrr elves. These secretive folk had treated the human as one of their own, and the apprentice druid had learned skills of survival, stealth, and combat. The Llewyrr even allowed him to ride the sleek white horses, among the finest war-horses in the Realms, that were bred in their valley.

The elves taught him the arts of bow and sword until the sister knights-for all the Llewyrr warriors were female-realized that Danrak's aptitude did not lie in the area of combat. Then he had spent much time in the Grove of Meditation, where his alert mind plumbed the mysteries of the earth and its caring mother.

But after the days of the sadness had passed, he knew that he must return to the vale and its great lake, there to await his destiny. Though the great goddess had withdrawn from the known world, Danrak continued to practice her faith, tending the wild places as best he could, caring for creatures that need his aid, even driving away woodsmen and farmers who dared to desecrate the once-sacred vale.

For the first fifteen years, he had lived a comfortable, if hermitlike, life. He ate well, of berries, tubers and fungus, fish and fowl-even, occasionally, venison or boar. He lived in a series of snug, dry caves, and wandered the vastness of Myrloch Vale without threat to his person.

But then, for the last five years, Danrak's existence had changed drastically. It began with brutal frost, so deep that it killed the fish in many shallow lakes and ponds. A late spring, coupled with a summer drought, had altered the balance of life catastrophically. With little forage, the deer and boar and other animals perished in droves, and with no prey, the dire wolves, mammoth bears, and firbolg giants had migrated into the vale, looking for food.

Now Danrak lived in a world that seemed to have lost its fertility, a place of hungry beasts and precious little prey. In winters, he froze, and in summers, he broiled, yet he lived stoically, prepared to grow old knowing no other life.

Until one night, just recently passed.

Then he had the dream, where he saw Myrloch Vale as it had once been: a place of pastoral forests, fresh springs, abundant animal life, and brilliant blossoms. The next morning, he started out, crossing treacherous swamps and oozing bogs, seeking a place he had seen in his dream, a place on the shore of the Myrloch. That great lake was the heart of the once-sacred vale and still a place greatly hallowed by those who remembered the Earthmother.

At times, as he wandered toward the lowlands, he imagined that he had lost his mind. Was it madness to follow the whim of a dream? He couldn't answer the question, but he never wavered from his path.

And now he reached his goal. He approached the great stone arch beside the vast water with trepidation, but also with a feeling of slowly building joy. Around this one arch were scattered other great blocks of stone. These had fallen and were now half buried by lichen and moss. Within the ring lay a brackish pool of water, covered all over by scum and algae. Beyond, the smooth, flat expanse of the Myrloch stretched almost to the horizon, the surface barely disturbed by a breath of wind. As he watched, a steady rain began to fall, clouding Danrak's vision and closing in his world.

Something moved behind one of the stones and Danrak spun, his hand clutching for the stout cudgel that always, even in sleep, remained tied to his waist. He relaxed slightly when he saw that the form was human, an old woman, clad in tattered leathers and leaning heavily upon a staff.

"Danrak?" she asked. Her voice seemed faintly familiar.

"Meghan?" Remembrance and joy came to him in a warm burst. He reached for her and wrapped her in a hug, recalling an apprentice he had known two decades past. The woman hadn't taken up the mantle of druidhood until after her thirtieth birthday, following the death of her husband in war. Though she seemed ancient now, he knew that she would be little more than a half century old.

"Did you feel it, too?" asked the woman, holding him with soft tenderness. "Did something call you here?"

"Yes!" he exclaimed. "You, too? It must have been real, then-not, as I feared, the onset of madness!"

"Oh, to be mad," Meghan sighed sadly. "It has come and gone with me, these past score of years. But, no, my friend, we are not mad now."

Others came forth from the woods-those who had been young druids, who had sworn their oaths and then been hidden away by their masters. Now they sensed the calling of some great portent, expressed to each in a dream.

The druids hoped and believed that the cycle of the Balance was about to begin again.

"Well?" Newt said expectantly. "Aren't you going to take something?"

Alicia looked at the faerie dragon in astonishment. "You mean loot the tomb of our people's greatest king? I'm surprised you would even suggest such a thing!"

The aura of Keane's light spell still glowed around them. The three humans stood before the massive treasure trove of Cymrych Hugh's burial mound, while the mummified body of the illustrious ruler lay regally on the high, flat bier. Alicia looked at it nervously, as if she expected the form of the deceased king to rise from the dead and expel them from the barrow. Though he was her family ancestor-"Cymrych" was the word for "Kendrick" in the Old Tongue-the princess felt like an invader nonetheless.

"It's rather amazing that it hasn't been looted before," Keane noted. "I suppose the location explains that, but why would they build him a barrow in these remote heights?"

"Cymrych Hugh's resting place has been a mystery for centuries," Tavish explained. She looked around, smiling dazedly. "After his death, a band of his most faithful followers disappeared with the body. None of them was ever seen again. Rumors said that he had been buried at sea or in the Myrloch, but no one-not even the bards-knew the truth."

"Until now," Alicia said, feeling a sense of reverence slowly overcome her discomfort.

"I knew!" Newt said impatiently. "Most of the Faerie Folk do! After all, he was our king too, and we've never come here to loot his tomb!"

"So why do you tell us to take things?" asked Keane skeptically.

"Not things! Something! Each of you should take something! That's why I've been waiting here for so long-to tell you that!" The dragon blinked in and out of sight for a moment, and then, as if by an effort of maximum will, he remained visible for several seconds at a time.

"Us? We should each take something?" asked Keane carefully.

"Yup!" Newt beamed. At least one of these humans seemed to understand a concept after it had been explained no more than five times!

Once again the companions looked across the mounds and stacks of treasures and objects. Light winked, reflected from countless golden coins. A bronze shield had somehow retained its mirrorlike sheen, and now their reflections stared back at them from its smooth surface. Alicia saw a great sword, a dark-hafted crossbow, an iron helm-all the accoutrements of a great warrior.

"A harp!" Tavish exclaimed breathlessly. Gingerly she knelt among the gold and silver coins, scattering several of them to the sides to reveal a small, gracefully curved instrument with a soundboard of wood so dark it was almost black. Reverently she picked it up, letting her fingers trace across the strings.

The sound that filled the tomb was mournful and joyous at the same time, a perfect blending of notes that climbed through the scales in matchless beauty. Though the instrument was plain, with none of the gilded trim or silver keys that were common on splendid harps, the sound surpassed anything they had ever heard.

"It's unbelievable. For hundreds of years, it lay here, and yet it's perfectly tuned." The bard looked at the tiny dragon questioningly. "But such a thing as this-surely it should remain here."

"Nope. It's yours now." Newt beamed happily. "Better to have it out where we can hear it, don't you think?"

"You're right, I suppose," said Tavish. She turned the instrument in her hands, looking over the frame, the silver strings, and the ivory tuning keys. "There are symbols by each of these keys. I can't make them out, though. It's a form of writing even more ancient than the Old Tongue."

"Or of different origin," said Keane thoughtfully. "It's indeed a splendid harp."

"And you?" asked Newt, suddenly popping into sight between the bard and the mage. "Now, you choose something!"

"I already have," Keane admitted. He, too, knelt among the coins and reached into the pile. His hand emerged holding a small brass ring.

"How'd you know that was there?" asked Alicia, amazed. The ring had been completely buried beneath the coins.

"I don't know," Keane replied, his tone wondering. "I saw it there-but you're right, it was buried. It's almost as if it called to me…." His voice trailed off as he looked at the plain circlet of brass, or perhaps bronze. The ring seemed pale and ordinary amid the splendors surrounding them, yet there was no hesitation or regret in the mage's manner.

"What is it? Does it have anything inscribed on it?" Alicia wondered.

"No-it's plain and unadorned. Sort of like me." Keane slipped it onto the middle finger of his left hand. "Fits like a glove," he noted.

"Your turn," Newt urged Alicia impatiently. "You pick something now."

The princess shook her head, confused and reluctant. "I can't! It seems so … so …" Her voice trailed away, though they knew her meaning.

"It seems wrong to you, child, but it isn't," said Tavish softly. "Trust Newt-you must."

"But I don't know what to choose! It's not like you, where something seemed to call and you found it. There's too much here, and it's all so magnificent!"

"Come on!" whined the dragon. "Don't you see anything that you want?"

Alicia laughed. "That's not the problem." She looked at the great sword and knew that the weapon was too large and heavy to be practical for her. Though she would be a warrior queen, that didn't mean she had to pick a weapon more suited for a brawny male twice her size and weight.

Besides, she reminded herself, the true Sword of Cymrych Hugh had been borne by her father. He had used it to triumph in the Darkwalker War, sacrificing the weapon in the final battle against the beast and its dark god. Any sword found here must be a replacement for her ancestor's legendary weapon.

The axe she also passed over. Like the blade, it was too heavy for her, and her skills leaned more toward the thrust and parry of rapier or short sword rather than the crushing force of hammer or axe.

The crossbow caught her eye and she hefted it. The weapon was large but light, and the action worked with a smoothness and ease she had never before experienced. A good shot with bow and crossbow, Alicia recognized this as a device of precise craftsmanship. Nevertheless, she set it back down, sensing that it was not her destiny to bear it.

She found a golden torque, a ring to place around the neck, and thought it elegant and bright, possessing an inner strength that seemed to flow into her hands when she lifted it-but that, too, she returned to the pile. A warrior she was, and thus she would find herself a weapon. The torque seemed more appropriate as the badge of a high druid.

Then she saw the silver coils lying beneath the wheels of the chariot. Each was a series of rings made by looping a single piece of metal through several spirals, designed to fit over the forearm. They were identical, each winding through three rings the size of bracelets.

Only as the princess picked them up and studied them did she notice that each bracer was delicately crafted into the coiled shape of a long, wingless serpent. She slid her right hand through the circles of one and found that it rested comfortably on her forearm. The other did the same on her left.

"Bracers fit for a queen," announced Tavish approvingly. Alicia looked at her companions and saw Keane's raised eyebrows.

"I know," she said, understanding his look. "I thought I would gain a weapon here. But somehow these feel right!"

"I don't question that," replied her teacher. She detected an unusual amount of tenderness in his voice. "After all, I dug through a pile of riches to find a brass ring!"

As Alicia looked downward, she thought she saw-or did she imagine it? — lines of silvery light flowing along the serpentine bodies. The bracers seemed delicate, almost frail. Certainly they wouldn't serve as combat protection. It looked as though the bite of hard steel would cut right through argent metal into the flesh beyond.

Why, then, did she put them on with so little hesitation? Alicia couldn't know, but neither did she feel any qualm or question about her decision. As she looked upward to the bier where rested the mortal shell of her great ancestor, she felt somehow that Cymrych Hugh approved as well.

"They left clear tracks through the heath. They rode without time for concealment." Knaff the Elder smiled grimly as he made his report to the prince. The warriors of the north had broken into ten companies, each of about twenty men, and scattered across miles of this rough country. For hours they had searched and explored, but now finally they had discovered a solid and visible trail.

Brandon gestured to one of his own band. The warrior, older and slightly smaller than the average northman, was a barrel-chested fellow who bore a long, curved horn, an artifact carved from the tusk of a great snow elephant.

"Sound the assembly, Traw. Below that peak to the north." Brandon indicated the round dome of a summit that loomed above the surrounding mountains.

Traw placed the end of his great horn on the ground, then put the mouthpiece to his lips. His chest swelled, and a long, low tone resonated through the valleys and across the peaks. It reached the ears of all of Brandon's scattered companies, and with its slow, plaintive notes told them to mark off three leagues to the north of their initial starting place. All ten groups started toward the rendezvous.

More significantly, no one else heard even the slightest hint of the cry, for this was an enchanted horn. It dated from the time when great sheets of ice covered the Realms, and northmen fought for their existence against the continuous onslaught of winter and against the frost-bearded monsters who claimed the icy lands for their own.

The huge tusked beast had fallen to the spears of a half-starved band, and the meat had seen the tribe through the coldest months of the year. In the spring, the men of the cold wastes had asked for the blessing of Tempus, and his might had given the horn its power, for though its sound would carry for many, many miles, it would reach only the ears of those whose blood was of the north.

Now the companies gathered to the sound of the horn, and Brandon led them along the trail of the riders. The trail didn't skirt the high mountain. Instead, it veered back and forth up the long, gradual slope until it reached the crest. Following cautiously, Brandon deployed his men in a long line and moved carefully onto the wide, gently rounded summit.

Here they found the great barrow mound, with its long, dark entrance. Three horses were tethered outside, waiting patiently for the Ffolk who could only be within.

"We'll greet them when they emerge," Brandon decided, ordering his men to take cover out of the entrance's line of sight. He himself, together with Knaff, took a comfortable seat directly above the dark gap. Then, like the three horses of the Ffolk, he settled down to wait.

Gotha grew restless in his cavern, which no longer seemed so massive. He knew nothing of the sahuagin who had come ashore with their gifts, or of the fisherman Sigurd of Gnarhelm, who discovered the items and took them back to his people as proof of a raid that had never happened. Finally his immortal master spoke to him.

Go forth, wyrm, onto the shore of the island.

Gotha crept forth from the cave mouth, his ghastly form emerging segment by rotted segment into the cold, blustery air. His legs creaked as he moved down the steep hill toward the shore where he had ravaged the town. Dark clouds scudded across the sky, and rain fell in spatters, passing for a few minutes and then returning with sudden force. But what did Gotha have to fear from chill?

Then, near the ruined villages, the monstrous dracolich beheld movement-humanoid figures, moving away from the sea toward him! For an instant, the beast toyed with the means of destroying the arrogant trespassers, whom he assumed must be human. Should he burn them with a gout of flame? Or seize them in his great claws, feeling their bodies crushed beneath his might? Or even better, bitten in two by his rending jaws?

But then he blinked and squinted. Dimly he could see that these were not humans. Instead, they were covered all over with green scales, though a few of the creatures, smaller than the others, were yellow. Their faces gaped, the wide slashes of mouths cutting like great wounds across them, widespread enough to reveal rows of sharp teeth.

"Greetings, O most pestilent wyrm!" cried the first of these beasts, throwing himself facedown upon the rain-slicked rocks of the shore.

Gotha paused in surprise as the other strange creatures did the same. He saw still more of the humanoids emerging from the surf, gathering in a semicircle before the dracolich, bowing and scraping and offering gurgling cries of praise.

Red gills flexed at the necks of the things, but they breathed air as well as water, for they showed no inclination to immediately return to the sea. The scaly creatures waited expectantly, as if desiring some sort of command or instruction.

The dracolich saw that some of the beasts wore hard breastplates, apparently made from great turtle shells, or helms made from the carapace of the great sea snail. Many carried weapons-tridents tipped with long sharks' teeth, or swords and daggers of oiled steel that had somehow resisted corrosion in the undersea realms.

These are your warriors. Use them well, my slave.

Gotha started abruptly as the voice of Talos came into his mind. Several of the yellow fish-folk moved forward. He saw breastplates inscribed with coral mosaics depicting the triple lightning bolt symbol of the Destroyer. The dracolich guessed that these were the clerics of that vengeful god.

A sneer of wry amusement curled his rotting lips as the monster considered the irony: He himself, a slave to the Raging One, was given slaves of his own so that he could work his master's will. At the same time, the undead dragon sensed a great deal of use toward which he could put these obviously savage minions.

For one thing, their ability to move through the water gave him great mobility and made his island lair an ideal stronghold-and the perfect base from which to launch assaults against the isles.

"Name yourself," growled the dragon, speaking to the largest and foremost of the fish-men.

"King Sythissal, Monarch of Kressilacc, ruler of the sahuagin, and your most humble slave, O mighty compound of filth and decay!"

The sahuagin raised his head. Gotha saw that the beast's back bristled with long, sharp spires. He was the largest of his band, standing nearly nine feet tall when he was upright.

"Rise," commanded the dracolich. "What know you of the lands around here?"

"These are but small islets, grand slitherer, north of the great islands of Alaron, Gwynneth, and the many Isles of Norheim," began the king. "But each has a host of humans upon it, except for Dragonshome, which lies to the north of here."

"And the nearest humans?"

"They dwell upon Grayrock, to the south, lying not far beyond the horizon," came the sahuagin's reply.

"Very well," replied the dracolich. "Let us go there and slay them all!"

"We shall kill all humans?" inquired the king hesitantly.

Gotha puffed a cloud of smoke in annoyance. "Not all of them. We shall begin the slaying, but soon they will begin to massacre each other!"

The hissing of the sahuagin, he knew, was their accolade. The dracolich unfurled his broad wings. With a powerful spring, he took to the air even as the troops of his army dove into the surf below.

"It'll be getting dark outside soon," Keane warned. "Unless you want to spend the night in this tomb, we'd better get someplace where we can sleep."

"Let's go," said Alicia reluctantly, with a lingering look at the bier of Cymrych Hugh.

The princess didn't want to part from the wonders around them, yet neither did she feel comfortable with nightfall descending. Like Keane, she felt that their intrusion would somehow be made more severe if they were to treat this barrow as a mere cave, claiming it for a few hours' shelter.

"You don't have to go already, do you?" said Newt, with a pathetic look at each of the companions. "What am I supposed to do?" he wailed.

"Well, you could come with us," said Alicia quickly. She wondered if that was a good idea, but she knew that the little dragon had accompanied her father and mother on several of their adventures, and in the tales of those days, Newt's helpfulness had generally tended to outweigh his mischief, though not always by a terribly large margin.

"I could?" The dragon beamed, his color immediately shifting to bright yellow. "Oh, but I couldn't! I'm supposed to wait here for you.. but you've already come, haven't you? Why, I must be done with that now!" The realization was a great dawning to the dragon. "Sure I'll come! Oh boy, it'll be great fun! Where are we going, anyway?"

"We were going to meet with the northmen," replied the princess. "I guess we have to make a new plan."

"Let's go, then," Keane said gruffly. Alicia sensed that he was less than delighted with their new traveling companion. "The sunset isn't about to wait for us, I'm sure."

Bearing their treasures-ring, harp, and bracers-the three companions and the faerie dragon carefully made their way down the long, dark tunnel. They emerged onto the mountain-top to see the glow of sunset in the west. .

. . and the arrows and axes of two hundred northmen, compelling them to lay down their arms and surrender.

Hanrald pressed forward through the night, though his mare staggered upon weary legs and his own back ached from the strain of the long day's ride. Still, it seemed that news of the ambush needed to be delivered to the manor before dawn and then sent on to Callidyrr as quickly as possible. Now, as the horse lumbered awkwardly down the stretch of the road leading into the valley, Hanrald smelled the familiar and acrid smell of coal smoke cross his nose. As always, the odor depressed and annoyed him.

He thought back to his day's journey and found his mind focusing irresistibly on High Princess Alicia. Stealing glances at her every time he could do so unobserved, he had studied her through the leisurely hours of the morning and during the hectic flight of the afternoon.

By the gods, there was a woman to fight for, to die for-to love! The knight, second heir to the earldom of Blackstone, remembered her cool decisiveness as their ways had parted and the hopeful smile she had given him as he rode away, alone, to bear the urgent news. That smile had lingered long in his memory, steeling his courage as he had dodged the northmen companies that seemed to be teeming through the highlands. Now that same memory kept him riding, pushing resolutely forward as the stars wheeled toward dawn and dead exhaustion strained to topple him from his saddle.

He thought, with momentary annoyance, of the greeting his father had given the princess, so pale compared to what she deserved! Why, if the mantle of Blackstone were his, Hanrald would have arranged a presentation of his honor guard and a festival for the common folk of the cantrevs to come and see their king's daughter!

"Halt! Who rides there?"

The challenge, from the gatehouse of the earl's manor, was Hanrald's first clue that he had arrived at home.

"Sir Hanrald. Open up and awaken my father. I bear important news!"

The steel portcullis started upward with a cranking groan, and a man-at-arms appeared behind it, speaking as the rider dismounted and waited to pass beneath the bars. "Welcome, milord. The earl's already up and in conference with your brother. Sir Gwyeth arrived home not two hours ago, and sore hurt he is, at that!"

"Is his life in danger?" he asked, surprised and concerned.

"I shouldn't say so … no more, at least. But his shoulder's broke solid, and the clerics are worried about the arm."

Hanrald left the horse in the care of his groomsman and quickly hastened to the hall, removing only his helm and gloves before he reached the great doors and was announced by the guardsman there.

Gwyeth, seated before the fireplace, grimaced from the pain of his wound as he looked up at Hanrald with sharp suspicion. Indeed, his eyes blazed with a look that seemed nothing less than hatred. Their father stood nearby.

Hanrald saw heavy bandages around his brother's left shoulder. Pryat Wentfeld, a priest of Helm and the leader of the local clerical hierarchy, stood over the wounded man. The holy man had apparently just completed some sort of healing ritual, for he raised his hand in the V-shaped sign of his god and nodded to the duke.

"It will heal well… my magic has knitted the bone where it was crushed, and the bleeding has stopped of its own. You must hold the limb still overnight. I shall return in the morning."

"My thanks, good Pryat," said the dark-bearded earl, his voice unusually husky. "Your efforts shall not go unrewarded!"

"The earl's generosity is well known, to the gods and to men alike," said the priest with a tight smile. "Though of course the deed would have been done from loyalty alone."

"Of course. Now I am told my other son brings news. Enter Hanrald, and speak!"

"One more thing, if I may be so bold. ." The cleric spoke hesitantly, but the earl gestured him to proceed.

"It is this former Moonwell, the pond which the lady's consort has ensorcelled, creating the illusion of a miracle."

"It's a good illusion," countered the earl skeptically. He pointed to the corner of the hall, where a great cedar trunk, freshly cut, lay. The mastlike beam stretched a good fifty feet. "The tallest tree up there was less than half that height yesterday. My men brought me this timber and told me the whole place has sprouted at once.

"Still," Blackstone continued thoughtfully, "perhaps it is sorcery. Indeed, there would be no other explanation, would there?"

The cleric nodded in agreement. "But, my lord, there is the matter of the people. They would not understand, perhaps, the power of a spell that could work such a transformation. Word is that a file of pilgrims has already started for the vale-only, of course, to face certain disillusionment."

"This I had not heard." The earl scowled. "What do you suggest?"

"The valley must be burned," said the cleric. "The trees destroyed, the grass trampled. It must be eradicated before the tale spreads and the people begin to believe in a cruel lie!"

"You are correct," Blackstone said, pointedly ignoring Hanrald's expression of shock. "It shall be done in the morning."

The cleric bowed his way from the room as the younger son approached the fire where sat his father and brother.

"Surely you aren't serious," Hanrald protested. "It is a miracle-at least, the princess and the bard believe it to be so!"

"We will conclude the matter in the morning." Blackstone brushed his son's objections away.

"But-" Hanrald persisted.

"Enough!" barked the earl. "Now, what is this news you bring?"

The knight took a deep breath. "A strange tale, Father-more mysterious, perhaps, than anything." Hanrald bit back his objections, telling his father of the ambush and how it had been thwarted by the hounds. Then, with some chagrin, he related the tale of their flight from what had proved to be a faerie dragon. Finally he told of his experiences evading the patrols that had scattered across the highlands after he turned back alone for the pass. His own conclusions, once suspicious of impending invasion, had begun to soften.

"They followed the northward trail of the four of us before I left the princess and her companions. I don't know what they did when they found the parting of our trails. Most, if not all, would have continued north, I suspect."

"Indeed," Blackstone said with a scowl. Only a glint in his eye showed his delight with the news. "So it seems they do not intend to attack us, then."

"That's only a guess, Father," Hanrald countered. "We must be prepared. It is a warlike force!"

"But there's an odd part to this tale, Father," Gwyeth interrupted. "They're not numerous enough to be an invasion army, unless there were many more troops hidden beyond my brother's view."

"Whatever the reason, I suspect they march to Callidyrr for a purpose other than war." The earl decided this point firmly.

Hanrald sat silently, surprised by his father's vehemence. After a moment, he spoke again. "Brother, what of your wound? I'm glad it will mend, but how did you come by it?"

Gwyeth cast a furtive glance at the earl but said nothing. Instead, Blackstone made the gruff reply. "An unfortunate and stupid accident-a careless hunter has already been punished. But we must speak of this crisis."

"Messengers must be sent-I hope within the hour-to Callidyrr," Hanrald urged, surprised his father hadn't already acted upon this point.

"But wait," said the earl slowly, choosing his words with great care. "Perhaps it is premature to trouble the High King with a local matter such as this. It could well be that this is not the prelude to war. Or if it is, it is a matter that we can handle ourselves."

"Surely you're not serious?" objected Hanrald. "This could be a threat to the whole kingdom!"

"Perhaps father is right," Gwyeth said, his voice purring. "It is a thing that, done well here, can do nothing but bring credit to the great name of Blackstone!"

Hanrald looked from his father to his brother, watching them as their eyes met furtively. Suspicions surged within him, but for now he would keep quiet. He would watch and he would observe, but he would brook no treachery to his king… or to his princess.

From the Log of Sinioth:

The seeds of chaos have been planted, and already they flourish. The voyage of one longship, my Vulture, sends frightened Ffolk scattering inland. Panic-stricken messengers ride to Callidyrr with urgent missives for the king. They do not know that he is gone and that his wife lies unknowing, nestled against the bosom of Talos.

My riders cross into Gnarhelm after a hard crossing of the mountains. They are tardy, but I am certain that Larth shall make up in vigor what his company lacks in timing.

All the cogs are in place, and now we only wait for the wheels to turn.