Prophet of Moonshae

15

"Fools! Imbeciles! I send you to do a simple task, and you fail because of pestering insects!" Gwyeth sputtered at his men-at-arms, his fury flecking spittle from his lips.

The six guardsmen quailed in the face of his rage, but none of them preferred a return to the onslaught of the giant bees, which had become hornets in their slightly exaggerated version of the incident.

"My lord!" objected a burly veteran, Backar. "They were the size of eagles, and they set upon us unnaturally!"

"Indeed, lord!" protested another. "And we fought like heroes, but the venom dripped from their stingers! They numbered in the hundreds, to be sure!"

"Only when we fled the vale altogether did the bewitchment cease!" Still a third guardsman spoke up, striving to divert the nobleman's rage.

Gwyeth stalked back and forth in the earldom's hall. He was glad that his brother was absent, but he desired his father's counsel. Unfortunately, the earl had ridden to Callidyrr several days ago, and thus his son would have to make the decision.

Then he remembered: Pryat Wentfeld, the cleric of Helm who had tended his arm. He barked an order to summon the good priest, and then he sat before the great fireplace and fumed while he waited for the man to attend him.

"Your lordship requested my presence?" asked the cleric less than an hour later, as he humbly bowed and entered the Great Hall. He wore a rich gown of gold-embroidered silk, and his round face was clean-shaven and well scrubbed. His eyes were small, but they sparkled with curiosity as he regarded the young heir to the duchy.

"Indeed. First I thank you for the skills you employed in tending my wound."

"It is always an honor to serve the house of Blackstone," replied the Pryat smoothly. Gwyeth knew full well that, after Wentfeld's second visit, his father had sent the cleric away with a bulging sack of gold. "I trust your shoulder has returned to full strength, or will soon?"

"Aye," grunted Gwyeth, raising his arm and passing it through a swing forward and rear. "As good as ever, I'll swear."

"Splendid!" The priest waited, sensing that the young nobleman had other business on his mind.

"I would speak with you on a matter you brought up with my father the night you first tended my wound."

"Indeed." The cleric smiled thinly. "You speak, I presume, of the pond, the so-called 'Moonwell' that has undergone some kind of-obviously illusionary-transformation?"

"Yes, precisely." Gwyeth was relieved that the cleric understood, and he poured out his frustrating tale. "I sent six veteran guardsmen there to begin the destruction as my father ordered-orders grown from your suggestion, to be sure. They were to fell the cedars and form a pile of the brush, burning what was not useful and sending horses to drag the good lumber back to the cantrev. I know them all to be steady men, courageous in battle.

"They reached the pond and encountered pilgrims who, as you suspected, accredited the place with some kind of miracle. The rabble did not stand in their way."

"Naturally not."

"However," Gwyeth continued, his tone dropping grimly, "the guardsmen claim to have been set upon by a giant swarm of stinging insects, creatures that drove them from the valley with great violence, though none of the cowards could show me so much as a bee sting!"

"There must be some germ of truth to the tale," observed the cleric, "else they would not have invented it, knowing there to be witnesses."

"That thought had occurred to me as well," Gwyeth agreed unhappily.

"But that proves nothing, save that magic is at work in that mountain vale," continued the pryat, undaunted.

"And how can we combat such a presence?" demanded the lord, exasperated.

"I'll prepare a salve that will render the men proof against the attacks of insects and like creatures," mused the cleric. "Though who knows if they will be threatened in a similar manner again…" His voice trailed off and his face tightened, as if he was deep in thought.

"I was hoping that you could accompany a band of men, led by myself, to the place," suggested Gwyeth.

Wentfeld looked shocked. "Begging my lord's pardon, but a day away from my ministries is a burden to impose upon my apprentices," he explained, shaking his head firmly. "And a costly one, since the oafs do little more than to squander the donations that I strive so diligently to collect." The pryat sighed heavily, the picture of dejection.

"Perhaps the loss to your coffers could be … compensated," Gwyeth said, galled but pragmatic.

He gritted his teeth to hide his anger as he saw the cleric's aspect brighten. Someday, he vowed silently, when the earldom was his, he would see that this gross imbalance of power was rectified. The clerics should serve their lords, not extort from them. Trying to keep his face blank, he listened.

"Oh, my lord-of course it is not necessary, but if in fact the financial health of my temple could be maintained, I should be only too willing to embark upon this task with you and remain until the work has been done."

"Very well," said the young lord, relieved in spite of himself to have the cleric's help. "Go and make your arrangements. We'll journey to the well tomorrow-myself, you, and half a hundred of my men-at-arms!"

The war-horse trotted up the mountain track. Each huge, white-fetlocked hoof plodded forward with strength and determination, as if the great steed did not acknowledge the hampering effects of weather or terrain. Astride the deep saddle, the knight held his lance high and cast his dark eyes this way and that, in search of any sign of the princess or her companions. The blue silk trappings of both horse and rider were now muddy and soaked, dripping with the steady rain that continued to drench them.

Hanrald had ridden for two days, combing the most rugged country on Alaron. Alas for him, he was no ranger. He crossed the trail of the princess and her escort of two hundred northmen on several occasions, but in each case, he mistook the spoor for a goat track.

For hours, the huge stallion cantered along high crests or thundered through wide, shallow valleys. Hanrald reined in at the highest places, and, his visor raised, peered into the distance in all directions, searching to the limits of his vision across the mist-obscured highland. When nothing moved within his field of view, he spurred the steed onward, lumbering through the next valley at an easy gait and then charging up another ridge, where he paused and again searched the land to the far horizons.

Finally, atop a grassy rise that dropped gradually into a pastoral vale, Hanrald caught a glimpse of something moving. A greenish shape dropped behind a rock, as if something had caught sight of the knight at the same time as the rider looked below. Bordering the grassy expanse, a shallow stream meandered with bucolic contentment.

Urging the horse into a gallop, he lowered his lance and set it to rest in the crook of his arm. The hackles of his neck bristled with an instinctive sense of warning. He felt an unspeakable menace in this hulking shape that had so swiftly taken shelter.

Nearing the rock, he reined in, and as the horse reared backward, he shouted at the mass of granite. "Ho, varlet! Come out from there or face the steel of my lance!"

The knight didn't flinch at the horror that arose from behind the rock, but he recognized immediately that he was about to fight for his life. The thing stood more than eight feet tall, covered all over in green skin that was slick with slime in some places, in others grotesque with patches of great, hairy warts. Vaguely humanoid in shape, though the arms and legs were unnaturally long and gnarled, the beast glared at Hanrald, its visage grotesque. Two eyes, sunk deep into shadowed sockets of black, stared outward at him, as emotionless as the gaze of an adder.

A troll! The vicious predator was worthy prey for any knight. Hanrald's heart pumped with the prospect of action.

Raising its two hands, each of which ended in four long, wickedly curving claws, the creature stepped from behind the rock. Its jaw gaped slightly, a caricature of a gleeful grin, revealing rows of needlelike fangs.

"Come, monster!" shouted Hanrald, flipping his visor down to cover his face. "Come and face your death!"

He seated his lance comfortably at his side and urged the stallion forward. With a powerful kick, the mount lunged into the charge. Hanrald sighted down the wooden shaft to the gleaming steel head. He knew that his first blow would have to tell, for the troll was a formidable opponent and only the force of a charging war-horse might give Hanrald the opportunity to prevail.

But as he thundered closer, the knight saw another flash of movement, a clue that told him he had made a terrible mistake. Another troll, every bit as big as the first, lunged onto the boulder, looming overhead.

Desperately Hanrald raised his lance as the second troll launched itself into the air. The keen head met the creature in the chest, skewering its belly and emerging from its back in a shower of black blood and green gore. The jolt knocked the knight back into his saddle, and then the weight of the monster pulled the head of his lance downward.

The troll hissed an inhuman screech as the cruel barbs ripped through its innards, but even impaled it struggled to crawl up the shaft of the lance. Sharp claws raked across Hanrald's armored chest as the tip of the lance struck the ground. Instantly the charger's momentum knocked Hanrald from his saddle.

The knight crashed to the ground with a gasp of pain but immediately rolled to the side and struggled slowly to his feet. He could see little through his eyeslits, but the terrified screams of his horse told him something. Drawing his sword and raising it in his hands, he turned to seek his enemies.

Kicking and shrieking pathetically, his war-horse tumbled to the ground, dragged down by the leap and grasp of the first troll. The monster sank long fangs into the faithful steed's neck and ripped out the windpipe with a gush of air and blood.

In another instant, the horse's struggles ceased, and the monster lifted its gore-streaked face to glare malevolently at the knight.

Closer, the second troll writhed on the great skewer of Hanrald's lance. Before the knight's horrified eyes, the creature began to pull the weapon through its body, forcing the wide hilt into the wound with ragged gasps of pain.

Retching in horror, Hanrald stepped forward and brought his sword down with all the might of his arms. The keen edge slashed through the troll's neck and sent the green, grotesque head rolling onto the ground. The body continued to writhe, pressing the lance through the gaping slash.

The deadly shaft emerged, streaked with green ichor, as the beast slowly worked the weapon free. Horrified, Hanrald raised the mighty sword again and chopped brutally downward. Again and again he hacked, until little more than a fetid pile of gory troll parts littered the heather. And even then, some of these continued to twitch and to move.

But now Hanrald was forced away from this victim as the other troll, the one that had slain his horse, leaped over the corpse of the steed and charged, fanged maw smeared with blood, gore-streaked claws raised in ominous threat.

The knight met the charge with a powerful blow of his sword, and though the troll tried to duck away, the keen edge bit into the green, wart-covered shoulder, knocking the monster to the side. Hanrald lunged in for the kill, but the beast sprang to its feet with shocking agility, smashing a clawed fist into the side of Hanrald's helm.

The knight fell, momentarily stunned, and he felt the pressing weight of the monster land on top of him. Squirming desperately, he twisted his blade upward and pressed, feeling it tear through tough skin. The beast howled, and something warm and slimy splashed onto Hanrald's once-shiny armor.

Gasping for breath, the man scrambled back, away from the wounded beast. It took all of Hanrald's concentration to remember to keep a grip upon his sword, so intense was his horror. He had fought men before, but never had he faced something as vile and unnatural as these monstrous, regenerating beasts.

Finally he stood again and saw that the wounded troll had also risen to its feet. Now it loomed over him, shaking its head as if to clear away the effects of Hanrald's deep, slashing blows. Yet even as the knight watched, the deep gash in the beast's shoulder slowly closed, the slimy effluvium drying on the lumpy skin. Whole again, the troll advanced in a crouch, reaching forward with those long, deadly arms.

Grunting from the exertion, Hanrald swung his blade once more, lopping an arm off at the elbow. The beast hissed and recoiled as the blade swished past it again, the retreat causing the blow to narrowly miss the grotesque belly.

Hanrald stepped forward, but then he gagged in shock as he felt the dismembered hand seize him around the ankle. Hacking and chopping in a frenzy, he mangled the limb beyond all recognition, but by the time he again pursued the retreating troll, the creature had already begun to sprout a new hand. Nubs of claws formed on the gruesome member, and he saw them begin to grow.

His strength failing from the exertion of the deadly battle, Hanrald had to make a killing blow, and quickly, else the inevitably regained strength of the monsters would give the fight a grim and unavoidable close. Now, with his horse dead, escape wasn't even an option. Angrily he chastised himself for the thought; escape had never been an option! A knight did not flee from a fair fight once it was engaged!

"Stand, villain, and face me squarely!" Hanrald shouted taunts at the creature, but it only grinned evilly and backed away, beyond the reach of his keen, gore-drenched sword.

The knight realized that he lacked the endurance and, because of his plate mail, the speed to pursue the creature. Gasping for breath, he stood and watched the thing as the new arm slowly extended into fingers, and then those deadly claws curved, wickedly sharp, to gradually complete the limb.

Suddenly remembering his first foe, Hanrald looked at the ground, toward the once-mangled remains of the first troll he had slain and then slashed into pieces. Already it had begun to reform, though as yet the thing's regenerating legs remained too frail to raise it up. Immediately he stepped to its side and hacked brutally, again and again, ignoring the creature's screams and desperate blows until it had once again been reduced to a grotesque mass of chopped bone, meat, and ichor.

A sense warned him of danger, and he spun on instinct to see the second troll springing through the air at him, arms extended, face split wide in a gruesome, horrifying grin. Gasping, the knight placed all of his strength into a single blow, using both of his hands to bring the great blade around in a whistling, murderous arc.

The slimed steel met the troll's midsection as it neared the end of its lunge, and all the power of the knight's muscles, backed by the spiritual force of his faith and, so he thought, his virtue, drove the keen edge through wart-covered skin and tough, stringy muscle. The momentum of his swing pulled him through a complete circle, but when he again faced his attacker, Hanrald saw two pieces of the troll, both writhing furiously on the ground.

In the next instant, he leaped forward, driving his blade over and over again into each of the troll's halves, knowing that his only hope was to inflict the damage faster than the thing could heal itself. Finally, groaning and staggering with exhaustion, he leaned back, seeing that no piece of either troll moved.

Lifting his heavy helmet from his head, Hanrald gasped great lungfuls of air and felt the cool breeze start to kiss the sweat from his brow, but he knew that his task remained unfinished. He stumbled to the saddlebags of his fallen steed and quickly lifted out several flasks of oil that he had carried, fuel to light his lamp or even to coax a fire from wet kindling.

He returned to the corpses, pausing only long enough to chop at a hand that had once again begun to twitch. Pouring the syrupy liquid over the grotesque masses of gore, he kicked random pieces of the trolls onto the corpses. Then, with a spark from his tinderbox, he struck a flame from each oil-sodden mass.

In moments, orange flame crackled upward, and thick, black smoke wafted into the air. The parts of the trolls vanished with an evil hiss, devoured by the one thing that could destroy them permanently. Even as they burned, Hanrald retained his watch over them, to insure that no living piece could escape the fringes of the blaze.

Only then did he remember his quest and realize that he still had no idea where the princess had gone. And now, without a horse, his current circumstance seemed to be more than a slight disadvantage. He grimly cleaned and sheathed his sword, then picked up his helmet, selected a pouchful of provisions and supplies from his saddlebag, and slung the heavy sack across his shoulder.

On foot, weary and bruised but still alive-and, more important, still a knight of the Ffolk! — Hanrald started across the rugged highland terrain, his body clinking heavily as he marched in his rigid metal boots.

The invading army of firbolgs numbered three, and this trio now stood before a battered sailboat, their broad backs to the bay, facing a suspicious and growing ring of belligerent northmen. It was to King Svenyird's credit, Alicia decided, that his warlike countrymen did not attack these traditional enemies immediately.

As usual, it rained steadily, and though it was merely afternoon, the dockside was shrouded in an evening-like cast. The Princess of Callidyrr accompanied the King of Gnarhelm and his son as they approached the giants. Alicia took care to keep the monarch between herself and the prince. She didn't think she could keep her composure if he talked to her.

The three firbolgs were hulking brutes, ten feet tall or more, with craggy faces and dark, scowling eyebrows. They wore crude garments of linen, and their feet were bare. The one in the center of the group, however, was distinguished by a huge black cape. The cloak was tied around his shoulder, with the hood thrown back to hang down his back.

"We seek the king," said the largest of the firbolgs.

"I'm the king," declared Svenyird. "What do you want?"

"No." The firbolg shook his head defiantly. "We seek the true king."

"What?" The monarch's eyes bulged. "You insolent castaways! I'll see you flogged at the post. You won't insult my-"

"Excuse me," said Tavish, smoothly sidling past the sputtering King of Gnarhelm. She eyed the cloak as she addressed the center firbolg. "Is it King Kendrick of Corwell you're looking for?"

The giant looked at her, his brows deepening into a scowl that carved gullies and ravines across his stony face. Alicia gripped Keane's arm as she saw the firbolg's expression.

"Is she in danger?" she whispered.

Keane, studying the giant, disengaged his arm and raised his hands before him-ready with an instant spell, Alicia realized.

"I think," the firbolg said finally. "King Tristan?"

"Yes, Yak-Tristan Kendrick!" Tavish stepped forward and gave the firbolg a hug around its broad midriff, surprising no one more than the giant himself, who stumbled backward and would have fallen into the bay if not for the saving reach of one of his fellows.

"Bard lady?" said Yak, his brows lowering still further as recognition came.

"Yes-I'm Tavish!"

"Good music," remarked the giant in a softer tone. "I still dream your harp sound."

"Why, Yak, you old charmer," replied Tavish, nudging his hip with her elbow.

"You know this firbolg?" Alicia demanded, asking the question that was on a thousand tongues. "How?"

"It's a long story," she explained. "He helped your father in the final battle against Bhaal."

"Enough!" barked the giant, his voice surprisingly harsh. The topic obviously annoyed him. "We bring news."

His words, in crude Commonspeech, were barely understood by the listeners. Nevertheless, the gist of his tale was clear to those close enough to follow.

"Many humans killed on Grayrock by dragon with fire-breath and fish-men from the sea. They slay and then they go. Make it look like other humans did killing. Or firbolgs. We come to tell you not us."

"Sahuagin?" asked Brandon, initial disbelief quickly converting to certainty.

"With a dragon," Tavish observed. "That's an unnatural pairing if ever I heard of one! I don't suppose you know where it lairs?"

Yak shrugged. "Flew away, over sea."

"And so there are more even than these in alliance. Those were human knights who masqueraded as the Ffolk, sacking the villages of Olafstaad," Alicia added.

"That's a lot of enemies," Keane noted. "And evidence of conspiracy, if they all serve one master."

"But finally we have an enemy before us!" Brandon proclaimed. "And now we know where to start-with the bandits of Olafstaad! We can hoist sail with the dawn and be there in a day and a half. Even if they're on horseback, we shouldn't have trouble picking up the trail!"

"Proof," noted Alicia grimly. "We'll find out what's behind this." Privately she reminded herself that the matter of Brandon Olafsson was not settled, but perhaps she could postpone its resolution until this matter was concluded.

"Tomorrow before sunrise!" cried the Prince of Gnarhelm, throwing up his arms and addressing the hundreds of men who flocked forward, pledging to serve as his crew. "The Gullwing sails for Olafstaad and the start of our vengeance!"

The cries of the men of Gnarhelm rang across the shore, and for once, the people were so loud that they drowned out the steady beat of the rain.

Robyn, High Queen of Moonshae, lay in a stillness little distinguished from death. Her second daughter, raven-haired Deirdre, looked down at her mother with a certain sadness. Nevertheless, the young woman was surprised at the remoteness of her feeling, as if a wall had grown around the softer portions of her heart, and so she felt emotion through a gray, stony filter.

Some emotions, she reminded herself, as her eyes drifted to the window. Others burned as hot-or hotter-than ever they had before.

Her thoughts turned to Malawar, as they often did when she took even the slightest moment for reflection. Many days had passed since she had last seen him, and despite the long hours of concentration required for her meditation and studies, she couldn't get the images of his golden hair, his benign smile and shining eyes, out of her mind.

A tapping at the door to her mother's chambers broke her reverie, and she opened the portal to reveal a steward.

"Lady Deirdre, a visitor has come to the castle and would desire an audience at your convenience. He is Earl Blackstone of Fairheight."

Her heart quickened, for she knew from Malawar that the earl was a confidant of the golden wizard's, and Blackstone's visit here, she hoped, might bring her news.

"See that he is fed and given rooms in the keep." This would place him close to her should they desire a surreptitious counsel. "And tell the Lord Earl that I shall attend him … in the throne room, in two hours."

"Aye, my lady."

The servant withdrew, and Deirdre cast another glance at the queen. Robyn, of course, had not moved. The princess felt a moment of guilt. She had intended to sit with her mother throughout the morning, but she shook off the feeling easily, for she was now called to an important matter.

Two hours later, dressed in a gown of emerald silk trimmed with a ruby broach and a stole of white fur that set off her hair dramatically, Deirdre entered the Great Hall. It was midafternoon, but the light that spilled through the high windows was dim, filtered by cloud cover, and the room remained cloaked in various levels of shadow.

The Earl of Fairheight bowed deeply, and Deirdre raised her hand, which he kissed gallantly. He wore a black cloak with a silver clasp, and his heavy leather boots had obviously been polished since he had reached the castle, for they gleamed with an inky shine that seemed more willing to absorb light than to reflect it. His dark mane of hair and beard had been brushed into a semblance of control.

Deirdre felt mature, older than her years, and yet a small part of her tingled with excitement as she embarked on matters generally reserved for rulers and their trusted and noble advisers.

They exchanged formal pleasantries, and she sensed that the earl studied her, as if he looked for some response that would key the matter that had brought him to Callidyrr.

"And the matter of the Moonwell?" Deirdre inquired after a few minutes. "Did my sister render a verdict consistent with the king's wishes?"

"Alas, lady, she did not," said the black-bearded lord with a sigh. He related his version of Alicia's visit to the Moonwell, including the mysterious creature that the princess said attacked her, but of which no clue could be discovered.

"Now the place remains ensorcelled, and I've had reports that herders and woodsmen are calling the thing a miracle! Of course, the good men and dwarves of the Fairheight Earldom put no stock in the stories."

"It seems she may have been rash," Deirdre agreed. Privately she wondered at the tale of the transformation. To her, it bespoke more than mere illusion, and she wondered what power might lie behind it.

"To be sure," added the earl. "I left my older son, Gwyeth, in charge of the cantrev, with instructions to burn the cedars and remove any other indications of this so-called miracle."

"A wise precaution," the princess agreed. She was tempted to countermand her sister's order and tell the earl to begin mining in the Moonwell's vale. Then she hesitated. Such a move would be too contentious, she decided, given the tenuous state of rulership in the currently king-and queenless realm.

"And my sister? I thought she would return to Callidyrr when she finished the mission."

"That's another strange tale," explained the burly nobleman. "She embarked, with her two companions and my son Hanrald, into the Fairheight Mountains to meet with a party of northmen that were observed there. My son returned, with word that the men of Gnarhelm were not hostile, and reported that the princess would meet with them further. There has been no word from her since, though I trust she is in safe hands."

"Northmen?" Deirdre asked. "There have been reports over the last few days of northmen raiding the coast of Callidyrr. I'd thought them exaggerated, but now I wonder."

Blackstone's perennial scowl deepened at the news. "It could be that the danger is more severe than-"

At that moment, a figure moved beside the hearth and the two, who had thought that they were alone in the Great Hall, whirled in surprise. Deirdre's mouth snapped open, but then she recognized the intruder and cried out in delight.

"Malawar! Come and meet the Earl of Fairheight." It slowly dawned on Deirdre that finally he had come to her in a chamber other than the library. The earl, meanwhile, looked at the visitor with mingled shock and suspicion.

"We are acquainted," said the earl, with a stiff bow. "Though not by that name. And, sir, our acquaintance does not give you leave to startle me into old age!"

"I am sorry, My Lord Earl," said Malawar, his hood thrown back and his eyes sparkling. "But necessity requires me to enter with stealth."

"We were discussing the Blackstone Moonwell," said Deirdre. "My sister has ordered the earl to refrain from his excavations. Should I-?" She stopped, catching herself. "I was considering ordering the mining to proceed."

"Alas," said Malawar, his expression wistful. "I fear it is too late for such a course." He addressed both of his listeners as he sat on one of the large chairs. "There is great menace afoot here-menace that threatens the very survival of the Ffolk!"

"You!" he declared, turning on Blackstone, his face twisted in sudden anger. "You know of the imminence of war, and yet you dismiss your information as irrelevant! Won't you believe the danger until a column of northmen batter down the gates of your home?"

Blackstone flinched visibly before the verbal onslaught but quickly found his tongue. "My son assured me-"

"Your son?" Malawar's tone was heavy with scorn. "You mean Hanrald, do you not?"

Now the earl scowled more darkly than ever, but Deirdre noticed that he didn't reply to the question. Instead, he glared at the cleric in impotent hostility.

"And you!" Malawar turned on Deirdre, his voice harsh, and the princess felt she had been whipped.

"What?" she asked, frightened. "What is it?"

"Your country has been invaded!" Malawar barked, not loudly, but still the words struck her like a blow across the face. "You're in command now. You must defend it!"

"What can we do?" the princess asked. A sudden enormity of responsibility threatened her, leaving her vulnerable to great doubts. "My father's gone, and my mother lies unknowing!" Even her sister, or Keane, she thought, would be comforting presences now.

"Send out your father's army! Strike back before it's too late! Mount the cavalry-patrol the borders! Be prepared to send a force into Gnarhelm to punish the insolent savages!"

So many commands! Deirdre's heart quailed at the magnitude of her challenge. But then, as quickly as it took her mind to focus on the thought, she remembered the presence of Malawar, and her fears vanished. With him beside her, she could do anything!

"But there is another part to this danger," said the priest, his tone modulating. Deirdre heard affection in his words again, and she felt a feeling of profound relief. "There is perverted magic at work, corrupting power that seeks to deceive your people into believing that their dead goddess returns to life! That is the menace of this Moonwell."

"My son Gwyeth addresses that problem!" Blackstone objected.

"It may be a task that is beyond him," Malawar replied noncommittally.

"But what can we do about it?" the princess inquired.

"If we have to, we can journey there," replied the golden-haired cleric. "To the place where the war will be decided. There we can make sure that we triumph."

"Where's that?" demanded Deirdre. "How can you know?"

"I don't know yet," replied Malawar. "But the knowledge will be given to me."

"Given to you by whom?" the princess persisted.

"By the power of my god." For the first time, all the lightness was gone from the cleric's voice. Deirdre was silent in the face of his solemnity.

"When do we go, then? And how?" inquired the earl.

"I'll tell you when. As to how…" The cleric's voice trailed off, and he looked at Deirdre. Once more he smiled. "Deirdre will take us," he concluded.

"Me? How?" she gasped, thrilled even through her amazement.

"Your power will take us far-and quickly, for we will neither sail nor ride," Malawar said levelly, his eyes meeting the woman's. "You will transport us by the power of sorcery."

Deirdre's heart pounded again-she had the power! Yet somehow she was no longer surprised at his remark. Instead, it seemed to provide a solid confirmation of suspicions she had begun to develop, ideas of her own powers and abilities that she had thus far been afraid to try.

Their attention suddenly was drawn to one of the great windows that marked the walls, too high for observance into or out of the hall but useful for admitting light.

A figure stood there, silhouetted against the gray sky. It was a man clad in a brown robe, his two hands upraised as if he would call some lofty power down upon the trio in the Great Hall below. At first Deirdre thought he stood outside the window, perched on the narrow ledge above the courtyard, but as she stared closely, she saw that the man was inside the Great Hall with them.

"Who are you?" she shouted angrily. Her first thought was that one of the servants, with colossal insolence, had chosen this time to clean the glass in the throne room windows, one of the few chambers in the castle equipped with the luxury of windowpanes. In the next moment, her suspicions grew. She felt that this visitor was a far more sinister harbinger.

"I bear witness to a congress of evil!" shrieked the stranger, in an old man's voice that was full of fury. He leaped from the windowsill, dropping twelve feet to the floor of the hall to land lightly and stride toward the trio.

"No!" Blackstone's tone was horrified, and Deirdre looked at him, shocked to see that his face had blanched in terror.

"Leave us, old man," demanded Malawar, his own voice soft. He rose and regarded the intruder, his expression menacing, but the trespasser marched resolutely closer.

Deirdre studied the approaching stranger, finding something oddly familiar about his appearance. The top of his head was bald, his robe tattered. His white hair trailed in a fringe to each of his shoulders, and a full white beard was matted upon his chest. His eyes blazed with a light that seemed wholly unnatural.

"Get away from me!" howled Blackstone, almost tumbling over his chair as he scrambled behind the stout wooden furnishing. "You're dead! I saw you die!"

"You plan your own doom, you who would seek to doom the earth!" cried the intruder, pointing his finger at the quailing earl and then at the princess.

"Leave here now!" Deirdre shot back, "or I'll summon the guard and have you put to the sword!"

The white-haired man's laughter mocked and infuriated her. Though she felt no fear of this intruder, his appearance enraged her beyond any capacity for reason. She opened her mouth, ready to shout for the castle guards, but a gesture of Malawar's held her command, and she paused.

"You have the power," said the golden-haired mage quietly. "You have no need of guardsmen to banish this impudent rogue."

"What do you mean?" she demanded, her anger turned even on the man that inspired such passion in her heart.

"Use it-use the power," Malawar said, his voice still soft. "Remove him!"

Deirdre whirled back to the old man. He had ceased his advance and stood watching the three of them, his hands planted on his hips, his mouth twisted into an expression of derision that served to madden her still further.

Abruptly she sensed the rightness of Malawar's suggestion. She raised a finger, pointing it full into the chest of the old man. He laughed, his tone still mocking, and her fury grew to volcanic heights.

"Go!" she shrieked, her voice sounding like a distant, shrill wind in her ears. Deirdre stood motionless, her finger aimed at the intruder, all her concentration, fueled by her massive rage, directed at him.

For a moment, the Great Hall settled into an awful, poignant stillness. Then the shrieking that Deirdre had heard moments earlier came back, as if a groaning, howling maelstrom of wind sought to form within the huge building. The princess felt like a statue, locked motionless in the grip of her own power.

She began to tremble, to feel an awful heat building within her, but still she couldn't move! Her finger remained fixed, and the stranger stared, as challenging and insolent as ever.

A dull rumbling shook the great tables, and chairs bounced and vibrated on the floor. Dishes rattled against the hearth, and the windows shivered in their frames. Deirdre felt as though she would burst.

Then the explosion came-a massive release of tension that ripped outward from the woman's finger in the form of a great bolt of energy. Red lines of power pulsed, etching themselves in the air, sizzling toward the wild-eyed prophet, striking him full in the chest and smashing him backward to the floor, battering his body with crushing force.

The rumbling continued, but now Deirdre could lower her hand. She felt weak, but suddenly Malawar was at her side, catching her when she would have fallen and lowering her gently into a chair.

The intruder, meanwhile, lay upon his back, the expression of awful gloating still fixed upon his face. Crimson flame outlined his body as his back arched and his legs jutted stiffly, raising him into an arc over the floor.

Then the hellish light pulsed brightly, so intense that Deirdre had to shield her eyes against the flash. When she looked again, the body of the stranger was gone.

The stream of pilgrims trickled to the Moonwell, Ffolk from small farms and highland pastures, remote from even the modest-sized town of Blackstone. A few came from the town, while others were drawn from farther cantrevs.

A woman from Blackstone told Danrak that Sir Gwyeth had proclaimed the Moonwell bewitched, forbidding travel to it until he and his guardsmen had had the chance to break the spell. He posted men-at-arms beside the foot of the trail, but those pilgrims coming from Blackstone immediately started bypassing the trailhead, following a treacherous goat track over several steep foothills.

Danrak talked to one young man who had carried his crippled bride all the way up the sheer and rocky trail. The fellow said Gwyeth had recruited a cleric of Helm into his plans and that the knight and his men would come to the vale of the Moonwell on the following day.

Not all of those who journeyed to the small pond had come with some need for healing. Some made the trek from curiosity, others because they had inherited a knowledge of druidical teachings from their parents or grandparents and wished to see the power of the goddess incarnate on the world. This, in fact, was what they believed: that a miracle had restored the Earthmother, and this well was simply the first sign of her coming. The faithful represented all ages, men and women and boys and girls, and though they were destitute, the miracle of the Moonwell gave them great joy.

All those who sought cures for ailments, it seemed, were miraculously healed by the magical waters. They came with limp and twisted limbs, with great scars on their skin, or with ears or eyes that failed to sense. They came, they bathed in the waters that-though they flowed directly from mountain heights-seemed as warm as a bath, and they emerged from the well healed and whole.

Some of them remained, resting or praying, around the water, while others started back to their farms or homes. They would spread the word to their neighbors, and soon the truth would carry across the isle. For a time, Danrak meditated with contentment on the miracle worked before his eyes. None of the pilgrims, except for the crone whom he had aided to the water, took any notice of him. The old woman took the time to gather a pouchful of sweet, dark raspberries and offered them to the druid. Danrak realized, with surprise, that he was famished, and he ate the simple meal with warm gratitude.

But as he ate and considered the steady stream of humanity, he realized that he could not become complacent. The young man whose once-crippled wife even now danced in the shallowest part of the pool had provided fair warning of the mischief intended by Blackstone's acting lord.

Danrak knew that the pilgrims, none of whom were armed, would be unwilling or unable to defend this place against the band that Gwyeth would bring on the morrow. He expected that group to be much larger than the half-dozen men he had routed on the previous day, and they would also be supported by the religious powers of a cleric.

Against them stood only Danrak of Myrloch, with his bare hands and the talismans he carried. Yet a week ago the prospect of such a struggle would have depressed and disheartened him-though, of course, he would still have faced it resolutely. Now it presented a challenge that inflamed his determination. He began to form a plan.

He selected several talismans and decided to begin his discouragement of the lord's party some distance away from the valley. If they became confused and demoralized during the half-day march into the mountains, he reasoned, they would be less likely to stand firm against him here.

Still, the question tickled the back of his mind even as he refused to consider it: What, in truth, could he hope to accomplish against a score or more of armed men and the magical abilities of a cleric who had known his god for his entire life?

Danrak's deity, after all, had so far been around for no more than a few days.

From the Log of Sinioth:

The Moonwell! That is the key now. The armies are poised to spread chaos across the isle, sweeping Talos to his proper position of power and domination. The princess yields herself to me, and in our union, we shall prevail.

But that is why the destruction of this vestige of the Earthmother's power must be accomplished with all haste. If the young knight of Blackstone proves incapable, then the matter shall fall into my own hands.

And I will not fail.