The Druid Queen

9

Princess Alicia actually had a very mistaken impression of Tristan's whereabouts. Despite the fact that he had a full day's head start and traveled mounted and alone, the High King hadn't progressed much more rapidly than had the footmen of Corwell. For one thing, he hadn't known about the pass into the vale that Robyn had sketched for Alicia. Also, his untimely stag hunt had carried him far from his proper path, and he meandered a bit as he tried to find his way back.

Now Tristan's eyes opened with the dawn, but it was several minutes later before he could pull his mind from the depths of slumber. He slept out-of-doors, he saw, with a mighty sword held ready in his hand. But where was he?

Myrloch Vale, he realized, the recollection followed by a flood of confusing facts. Shallot was here, and Ranthal and the moorhounds. He wore his chain mail, and he had come here on some sort of mission.

But what?

His eyes wandered to the east, toward the bright flare of the sun as it crept above the tree-lined horizon. His mission, he recalled, was a quest of no little importance, yet now it didn't strike him as strange that he couldn't remember the nature of that purpose.

Instead, it was as if the task would only become relevant when he could put his memory in order. He tried to focus on the direction of his journey, but all he could think about was the sunrise, the gleaming dawn that beckoned in the east. Why was his mind so thick? Was something wrong?

Eastward-that must be it, he told himself. True, he felt a vague lack of conviction about that determination, but he could think of no reasonable alternative.

Thus determined, the High King of the Ffolk saddled his great war-horse and called his hounds to the trail. Obediently they loped toward the rising sun, with the proud warrior on his great steed riding grimly behind. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, ready… but for what?

Tristan's mind sharpened until the king felt a keen pulse of mental power tingling through him. For a moment, he drifted again. Why was he here?

"The Darkwalker is abroad," he announced loudly, the words ringing as an alien sound through the pastoral wood of Myrloch Vale. He saw a momentary image of that looming, reptilian form, but it quickly faded into the mists and disappeared.

Did he campaign against the sahuagin? An image of the spine-backed fish creatures filled his mind, rank upon rank of them emerging from the sea to pillage and slay. Did they lurk in the woods, among the trees? Then, in another burst of lucidity, he knew that he wouldn't be seeking his aquatic enemies in an inland valley. No, it must be the Darkwalker.

Somehow, that thought didn't seem right either. He had a clear picture of a young prince pursuing the unnatural horror that stalked the land. Yet for some reason, he felt like a very old king.

What was the purpose of his grand quest? The sun rose higher, and after a while he even began to doubt the accuracy of his direction. Eastward didn't seem right, after all.

"Tristan! Hey, King, wait for me!"

The voice took him by surprise but brought a welcoming surge of joy to his heart at the same time.

"Newt!" cried the High King, spinning about as much as possible in the tall saddle. "By the goddess, fellow, it's good to see you!" The blunt, tiny snout widened in Newt's unmistakable smile, while his butterfly wings buzzed easily to keep him in a steady hover.

"Hey, what a great horse! And that dog-why, you'd think Canthus was here!"

Chattering delightedly, the little faerie dragon buzzed through the air, circling Tristan and shifting through colors of red, orange, and violet.

"Canthus?" For a moment, the king was puzzled. "He is-" Then he remembered. The great, shaggy moorhound was called Ranthal. Canthus, Ranthal's grandsire, was long dead.

But Newt was here. "Come take a rest, my friend," the king said, raising his gloved hand. Delighted, Newt came to rest on the man's wrist, allowing himself to be lowered to the pommel of the deep saddle.

"Are you out here on a hunt?" asked the faerie dragon, propping himself up on his haunches.

"No, no. I ride because …" Awkwardly, Tristan's voice trailed off. Suddenly the appalling state of his mind came driving home with vengeful force. "I don't know why I'm here," he concluded miserably.

"I'll bet it's the firbolgs again," Newt said, with a conspiratorial look into the woods on either side. "They sacked Cambro, you kn-Hey, what is it?"

Tristan bolted upright in his saddle and then shouted aloud in combined relief and outrage. The king seized the tiny dragon around his belly and squeezed the air from Newt's lungs.

"Firbolgs! That's it!" he cried as the full wealth of his memory came flooding back.

He squinted into the rising sun. "And not east-I should be riding north!"

Abruptly the grim strength of his delusion became clear. Something worked against him, striving to steal his memory, his very mind! The forest around him suddenly seemed a darker, more menacing place. He quickly yanked Shallot's reins to the side, starting the great horse onto a northerly course.

How long had he wandered? He realized, to his further distress, that he had no idea as to the answer.

"When, Newt?" he pressed. "When did the firbolgs sack Cambro?"

"Well, before." The faerie dragon squinted up at the king as Shallot broke into a loping canter. "I mean, before I saw you….Oh, and I saw Robyn, too!"

"You did?" Tristan had ridden out of Corwell too quickly to hear the full tale of Robyn's experiences on her mission of reconnaissance. He bit back a question about the timing of Newt's encounter with the queen, fearing he had already overloaded the tiny serpent's recollection. "But Cambro-how many days ago was it that the firbolgs came?"

"Oh, lots," Newt said breezily. "But I knew you'd be coming along."

The king realized that the faerie dragon was being as specific as he could. Newt wasn't the one to provide precise details or painstaking answers to questions. Nevertheless, Tristan felt a great lightening of his load from the presence of his old friend.

"So-we're going to thump those firbolgs, I bet!" Newt chirped, raising his neck to look forward past Shallot's streaming mane. Then, in a moment of puzzlement, he squinted and looked to the rear. "Didn't you bring an army with you?" he asked.

Another wave of chagrin washed over Tristan. "No," he admitted. "I came alone."

The faerie dragon's eyes widened in awe. "Wow! This is going to be some battle!"

Tristan shook his head. The fierce determination that had seized him following Robyn's report seemed like a strange dementia now. What had he been thinking? For a moment, he considered spinning the horse about, thundering back to Corwell, and mustering his army, but he immediately discarded that course of action as too time-consuming. He must be near the northern fringes of the vale by now, and he couldn't admit that all this time had been wasted.

Another reason nagged at him as well-pure, royal pride. It shamed him to think of his irrational behavior, and if he returned to Corwell, he would be forced to admit his realization before all the Ffolk of his kingdom. That wasn't something he could bring himself to do.

But why had he made this mistake? That question skirted the realm of his brain but wouldn't come into focus-at least, not now.

He tried to imagine the monster that had led the humanoids on their destructive course. A burning, almost mindless hatred seized the king as he pondered this unknown firbolg. What restless arrogance propelled him onto this destructive path? The lord of the marauding band became a focus of his rage, and Tristan forged an iron determination-one day that brute would die on his sword.

"Where's Cambro-how far away?" he asked, trying a different tack on the scatterbrained faerie dragon.

Again Newt looked at him, squinting like a tutor regarding a particularly thick-skulled pupil. "Cambro's in Myrloch Vale," he said precisely. "And you're in Myrloch Vale, too!"

"I know that!" declared the king, unable to entirely squelch his impatience. "But where in Myrloch Vale-how far from right here?"

"Oh, I don't know. It's over there somewhere." Newt gestured vaguely, but it was enough for the king. The faerie dragon had pointed to the southeast. Tristan realized that he had indeed traveled almost to the northern fringe of the vale. Perhaps he hadn't lost as much time as he'd feared.

"And the firbolgs?" the king pressed. "Do you know where they went from Cambro?"

"Nope," Newt replied, with a firm shake of his head. "Though I heard the humans talking about Winterglen."

That information, at least, was no less than the High Queen had reported when she returned from Myrloch Vale to the castle. "Which humans?" he asked, to confirm his suspicions.

"The ones Robyn talked to-the ones with the dwarves! Don't you pay attention at all?"

Tristan grimaced. He'd forgotten what a painstaking process it was to gain information from the scatterbrained faerie dragon, but-for now, at least-it proved well worth it.

"What about wolves-a wolf, anyway? Have you seen him?"

"I've seen lots of wolves!" Newt boasted. "Remember when the Darkwalker came to Corwell, and so did the wolves? Why, there were at least a thousand of them! The whole pack came running out of-"

"No! I mean wolves here, now!" blurted Tristan.

Newt looked around, his tiny eyes squinting. "Nope!" he announced, full of certainty. The king decided not to press the issue.

"We're riding to Winterglen," he announced casually. "Though I'd like to camp on Codsrun Creek tonight."

"Well, why didn't you say so?" huffed Newt. "That's way over there!" he added, pointing to the west. "Say, is that Corwellian cheese I smell?" inquired the little dragon, with a meaningful look at the king's bulging saddlebags.

With his position more or less triangulated, the king chuckled with a small measure of relief. Reaching back, he managed to pull a small morsel out of his saddlebag for Newt. "That'll have to last you until we stop for the night," he warned, knowing that the cheese would disappear within a few moments.

But Newt settled down to munch happily, and the miles rolled away behind them. The spell of delusion had passed, except for the lingering distress caused by the mysterious origin of his confusion. The king kicked Shallot harder than he intended. The great war-horse bucked once in annoyance and then set off for the north at a breakneck gallop.

"Hello, my princess," Keane said softly, folding his long legs below him and settling to the ground beside the small fire. "Do you have a few minutes for your old tutor?"

Alicia laughed and nodded. "Sorry, Keane. I know I've been busy. Just now I was almost falling asleep in my tea."

"You're setting a good pace. It's no wonder that you're as tired as the rest of us," allowed the lanky magic-user.

Indeed, Keane's own legs were cramped and sore, and the ground made an even less comfortable seat than the saddle, which had come to be a fiendish torture device in the mage's mind. Yet he had carefully avoided complaining, knowing that the weight of her command weighed heavily enough upon Alicia's shoulders. And he at least had the benefit of a mount. The warriors of Corwell who marched with them traveled on foot.

"How are the men doing?" Alicia asked, as if reading his mind. "They all seem cheerful enough when I'm around, but I wonder what they really think."

"I think they'd follow you to the Abyss if you wanted them to," Keane replied truthfully. The mage had mingled with the men-at-arms during much of the march northward. He had observed the genuine affection with which they watched and spoke of the young princess who led them.

They looked up to see the sturdy, bandy-legged form of Sergeant-Major Sands approaching. The grizzled veteran stroked his long mustache until he reached the fire, where he bowed to Alicia and nodded at the magic-user.

"The men're all bedded for the night," he said. "If there's nothing else you'll be wanting, I think I'll turn in myself."

"Thanks, Sands. You've done more for us than anyone could ask," the princess replied sincerely. She watched him swagger off, knowing that his gruff exterior concealed a real affection for his royal commander.

Although she didn't realize it, Alicia unconsciously encouraged this admiration. She remained cheerful even when they faced obstacles, such as the unexpectedly deep stream they had encountered that afternoon. The waterway hadn't been featured on Robyn's map, yet it had raged through a deep gorge and they had lost many hours looking for a suitable ford. Alicia had raced ahead of the column to find a crossing, then galloped back with a whoop and cheer that put great heart in the weary marchers.

And even though she was mounted, the princess put in as much effort as any footman, riding back and forth along the column of marching men, responding to each loud greeting with a wave or a smile, and then racing ahead to make sure they found and followed the route Robyn had marked for them on the map.

Also, the princess had scorned any privileges of royalty. Like any warrior, she built her own fire and cooked her own meals, though every evening she made the rounds of the camp and was frequently invited to join a small group of men at their own cheery blaze. This she did as much as time allowed, listening to their stories of home and hunt, sharing her own experiences in turn.

Keane had watched admiringly, seeing the way that she earned the men's loyalty, sensing in this young woman all the qualities of leadership that would one day make her a splendid monarch. Yet he could tell that she herself remained for the most part unaware of these feelings, a fact that was part of what Keane found so appealing in the young princess.

"It's so hard to tell about them," Alicia said wearily, leaning forward and allowing a bit of the fire's warmth to soak into her rough, callused hands. "Sometimes I think they're coming along out of loyalty to the king, and they're only following me because I'm going the same way."

Keane shook his head firmly. "That's not it, not at all. Your father is an important symbol to them … to all of us. But don't underestimate your own role. You represent the Ffolk's hopes for the future. It's good for them, and for you, that you can get to know each other."

Alicia smiled, albeit wanly. "Thanks, old friend. I don't know if I could do this without you here to help."

"Sure you could," he assured her. But he was privately glad she didn't have to, because he didn't want to be anywhere else.

Keane's silent addenda must have shown on his face, for the princess reached over and clasped one of his hands in hers. "How about the inquisitor?" she asked. "Did you see him settled in?"

The young wizard chuckled ruefully. "As usual, he's pitched that palace of his off to the side. Trampled a good-sized meadow to do it"

Though the patriarch of Helm had accompanied them every step of the way, he remained a distant and mysterious figure. He camped in a manner completely unlike any other member of the expedition. Each night he produced a small square of canvas from his voluminous saddlebags. Casting the object on the ground, he spoke a short incantation, and the thing quickly expanded into the structure the Ffolkmen had immediately dubbed the "palace." In truth, it was merely a tent, but the structure included several rooms and covered more ground than a typical house. Colorful silk adorned its many panels, and from three sharp peaks-one atop each of the main chambers-flagpoles extended upward. Three identical banners, each portraying the All-Seeing Eye in vivid detail, outlined in a gold border with highlights of silver thread, streamed from these shafts, proudly proclaiming the faith of the tent's sole inhabitant.

"I've told him not to do that!" Alicia objected. "Everyone else sleeps on a small patch of ground. Why does he need a full hectare?"

Keane ignored the obvious reply concerning the huge cleric's girth and addressed the more pertinent issue. "To him, the whole concept of Myrloch Vale is superstition, or perhaps even blasphemy, and he's persistent, to say the least, in maintaining his own way of doing things."

"There's something more there," Alicia said quietly. Something in her voice drew Keane's eyes to hers, and he saw that the princess was actually afraid of Parell Hyath. "It's not just that he's of a different faith. It's as if he thinks of the goddess as an enemy!"

"If he shows any kind of threat," Keane vowed, "you can be sure that I'll be there to stop him!"

"I know." The pressure of her hand increased, and the wizard's heart swelled with joy. He wanted to wrap her in his arms, to pull her against his chest and shelter her from the world. But this he couldn't do, nor was such protection, he sensed, what she needed or desired.

For a time, they watched the fire in silence, seeing the dry aspen slowly turn to coal, the pieces falling away from their individual limbs to form a soft bed of embers. The gentle glow within, of deep and iridescent orange, made a pleasant companion to the darkness and to each other.

"How much longer until we're out of Myrloch Vale?" Alicia wondered.

"We could cross into Winterglen tomorrow," Keane noted. They followed a course to the west of Codsrun Creek, and five days' march must certainly have carried them out of the wide valley.

"I wish there'd been some sign of Father."

Keane shook his head, trying to hide his own concern. "This is a big place. The chance of us crossing his trail anywhere along the way is pretty remote."

"Then what if he has caught up with this army of firbolgs and trolls? Is that any better?" Alicia demanded.

"There's always the dwarves," Keane reminded her. "Finellen's likely to spot him just as she did with Hanrald and Brigit. And she's not about to let him charge off on any suicidal attacks."

"I wish I could believe that. But it seemed so shocking, so sudden. One minute he's standing there talking to us, and the next he's astride Shallot, pounding across the moors! If he hasn't come to his senses, who knows what could have happened to him!"

"That bothers me, too," Keane admitted. "It was too sudden. Your father's not a sluggish man, but it's not like him to do something so drastic without a little more reflection."

"Greetings, fellow travelers!" The hearty voice emerged from the darkness, followed quickly by the bulky form of Parell Hyath, Exalted Inquisitor of Helm. The silver and golden thread gleamed against the white silk of his voluminous robe. Somehow he kept the garment immaculate, even after five days on horseback, five nights sleeping in his tent.

Keane cursed silently as the princess sat up straight, removing her hand from his.

"Hello," Alicia replied stiffly. His was an invasive presence, but throughout the march, she had forced herself to treat him with civility. Tonight, however, his arrival might as well have doused ice water over the fire.

"Does our quarry draw near? Are there reports from your scouts?" the patriarch inquired, settling himself on a fallen log a little back from the low fire.

"The men of Llyrath have found the path of the firbolgs," she replied. "But it's a cold trail, nearly a week old."

"Any sign of your father, then?" Hyath's eyebrows, which nearly met in the middle, came together in a questioning, even concerned, frown.

"No, nothing," Alicia said bitterly. She turned back to Keane. "We've got to pick up the pace! Too much time has passed already, and I don't want it to be too late by the time we get there!"

"Now, my child … I don't believe-" the cleric began, but Alicia cut him off with a sharp gesture.

"We don't know what to believe! That's why it's so important to move quickly." She stopped to think, and both men tactfully remained silent for a few moments.

"Tomorrow we'll break camp an hour before dawn," she declared. "The packs are lighter now, with so much of the food gone, so we'll also add another hour to the evening's march."

Alicia's eyes saddened, and she looked at Keane. "That is, if you think that the men…"

"I said they'd follow you to the Abyss, and I meant it!" he replied.

"I hope you're right," she said sadly. For a moment, Keane wondered if he felt any of the warmth in her voice that had been so full just a few moments before. He might have, or it could have been just a figment of his imagination.

"What about the plan? We win the fight-then we get a boat!" snarled Baatlrap, confronting Thurgol on the dock-side of Codscove. The huge troll's thin lips were drawn back, revealing his jagged fangs, while he held his massive and knobby fists planted firmly on his hips.

The firbolg chieftain and his twelve kinsman had, with great difficulty, pulled the Princess of Moonshae to wharfside. Thurgol clambered out of the rocking ship and bumped into the troll, knocking Baatlrap backward a step.

"The boat came to shore!" barked the firbolg. He was too delighted with his prize to pay more than mild attention to the hulking troll. "We took it!"

The pair stood amid the throng of huge, boisterous humanoids on the waterfront of Codscove. Wounded trolls, as they healed, limped across the trampled commons to join them. The remnants of the human defenders, recognizing their cause as lost, had fled the field several minutes before. For the time being, even the trolls were too tired to pursue.

Nearby the ruins of the shantytown still smoldered, while the gruff, profane sounds of firbolg revelry continued to rock the stone-walled warehouse.

"Humans all fled, the cowards!" gloated the troll. "We trolls routed them!"

"Good fight," Thurgol agreed easily. He turned to watch his impromptu crew members grappling with ropes and thwarts, trying to secure the ship to the dock. "Stay there. Hold the ropes!" he commanded finally.

"Leave ship here," Baatlrap said, drawing Thurgol's suspicious attention. "Whole army go after the humans. Kill all of them!" The troll's eyes drifted casually over to Garisa, who stood at the waterfront with the Silverhaft Axe at her side. The old hag scowled back, unintimidated.

The firbolg chieftain blinked in surprise, studying the recalcitrant troll. Then he scowled, drawing his heavy brows down over his craggy face in an expression that was very menacing indeed. "We've got the ship. Now we sail to Icepeak!" He pointed across the Strait of Oman, currently too hazy for the far shoreline to be seen. Nevertheless, his firm intent was unmistakable.

"No," declared Baatlrap, stepping closer to the firbolg chieftain. "You follow me now."

Thurgol glared at his co-commander in growing fury. "You saw the sign of the gods!" he barked. "We have the Silverhaft Axe. Now it's time to take it to Icepeak!"

Baatlrap looked at the ship, skepticism rank on his grotesque face. "Humans flee that way," he said, pointing to the east along the shore. "We should give chase now-catch them and kill them!"

The firbolg chieftain showed no fear of his gangly, powerfully muscled rival. Yet as he remembered the size of the ship, he knew he couldn't squeeze more than his own tribe into the hull. There would be no room for the trolls. And given their utter lack of nautical skill, he suspected that multiple crossings of the surprisingly wide strait would be out of question.

"I take the ship and my warriors," Thurgol said after a moment's thought. "You trolls, and any giant-kin what don't come along, you can chase the humans."

His suggestion seemed, to the powerful giant, to be a model of diplomacy and compromise. He nodded thoughtfully, considering all the ramifications. It was a good idea!

"No!" barked Baatlrap, surprising Thurgol in his self-congratulatory meditation. Then, with not a second's warning, the hulking troll attacked.

How long can a back be twisted before a person became permanently crippled? When an arm or leg remained numb for hours on end, did it wither and die? These questions arose from more than idle curiosity in Tavish. By now, after more than an hour under her bench, she considered them crucial to her chances of survival.

Already she felt as though she had passed the point of ever being able to walk again. A rough thwart jabbed the small of her back, and the low-hanging bench pressed her shoulder into the hull, wearing her skin away with each jolt and roll of the ship. And the firbolgs, she quickly noted, jolted and rolled the ship a good deal more than had Brandon and his crew. The only good news was that the water barrels served to screen her from observation by the giants.

When the humanoids scrambled out of the vessel onto the docks of Codscove, she had risked a little movement, stretching her legs beneath the bench and rolling sideways so that the vicious wooden thwart was removed from contact with her backbone. At the same time, her new position allowed her a small crack of daylight, a space between the bench and a water barrel, through which to observe the longship's captors.

She saw a monstrous troll, easily the largest and ugliest she had ever seen, jabbering angrily with an equally hulking firbolg. The pair stood nose to nose beside the ship, barking guttural sounds at each other. Though she couldn't understand a word of the conversation, Tavish sensed that the troll grew increasingly agitated.

The creature carried a huge, wicked-looking sword, balancing the weapon easily in the palm of one massive hand. The blade was streaked with blood; he hadn't bothered to clean it after the battle on the commons. The giant, on the other hand, leaned casually on a huge, knotted limb. To Tavish, the club looked as large as a small tree trunk, but the monster spun it easily to rest it across one of his broad shoulders.

The firbolg's eyes drifted over the boat, and Tavish flinched, though there was little chance that the creature would see her in the shadowy niche. She was puzzled by something in his eyes. They seemed to stare with longing far into the haze over the strait.

Then, with shocking speed, the troll whipped his sword upward and slashed it toward the unprepared firbolg's neck. Backed by the force of powerful sinew, the blade whistled through the air while the firbolg, still staring out to sea, remained unaware of the treacherous attack.

A deep voice, shrill with warning and-to Tavish, who couldn't see the speaker-unmistakably female, screeched an alarm. With amazing speed, the firbolg flipped his club to the opposite shoulder, spinning back to face his attacker while the great sword bit into the wooden weapon with a loud chunk.

Bellowing in fury, the giant-kin twisted his club and almost pulled the blade out of the great troll's hands. As it was, the obscene monster held on to the hilt with both hands, stumbling across the dock before he wrenched the sword from its wooden trap.

An excited hubbub of voices rose from the encircling humanoids, all of whom backed out of Tavish's vision to leave the two combatants a wide, unimpeded arena. The bard felt the strong tension in the air and knew something very important was riding on this duel. The firbolg planted his broad feet firmly, hefting the mighty club and warily holding it before him, guarding against another quick attack.

The troll, however, showed no intention of dashing in for another savage onslaught. The green-skinned humanoid held the sword in the same manner as the giant wielded his club, so that the tips of the two weapons nearly touched, each fighter guarding against a rash attack by his foe.

Tavish heard hisses and catcalls rumble from the unseen onlookers, but the firbolg stood firm, allowing the words to roll off his shoulders. The troll, on the other hand, stepped backward and then angrily barked at the surrounding monsters. His sharp commands only seemed to inflame them more. Even without a knowledge of the language, the bard had no difficulty discerning the derisive tone of the hoots and taunts.

Finally the weight of opinion grew too heavy for the monstrous troll. With a curse and a snarl, he sprang toward the firbolg, bashing at the club with his huge, jagged blade in an attempt to sweep the weapon out of the way.

But he may as well have chopped at a broad tree. The firbolg, muscles knotting in his shoulders and arms, held the club firm. Instead, it was the troll who staggered, though the lanky creature quickly regained its balance and scuttled through a wide circle around the giant-kin.

Now the firbolg uttered a bellow, a blast of sound that nearly deafened Tavish, and sprang forward with a timber-shaking pounce. The club flew through a dizzying arc, and the troll threw himself headlong onto the dock in order to avoid the savage swing, dropping out of Tavish's view. The cacophony of the onlookers' voices rose feverishly while the hulking giant leered in fierce triumph.

The firbolg whirled through a circle, bashing downward with his stout weapon. Tavish heard it crack solidly into the timbers of the dock, not the troll's wriggling body, and she felt oddly disappointed. Though each of the combatants was a mortal enemy, the ghastly appearance and the total and unadulterated evil nature of the troll made that beast the more hateful foe. Nevertheless, she retained no illusions about her fate if the brutish giant-kin should discover her.

The firbolg kicked, and she heard a squawk of outrage from the green-skinned monster. Then the troll bounced back into view, swinging the gory sword in a wide circle toward the giant's midriff. As the firbolg moved to block the attack, the troll pulled the weapon back, avoiding the parry before driving the weapon's sharp point straight toward the firbolg's chest.

Surprised, the giant tried to recover, twisting desperately away, but not before the keen tip ripped through his skin, slicing a wound deep into his flank. Grunting in pain, the huge creature staggered back, weakly flailing with his club to block any immediate pursuit.

But the troll didn't hesitate for long. Utilizing the newly-successful thrusting tactic, he drew the sword back, leveling the blade and angling the point straight toward the giant-kin's heart. The firbolg stumbled awkwardly, almost falling to one knee, and Tavish wondered if the wound in his side was mortal.

So, too, did the troll. Sensing his opponent's weakness, the horrific monster lunged inward, driving the sword with all the power of his taut muscle and tough, resilient bone. Like an arrow, the tip of the blade darted toward the lurching giant's unprotected chest.

Tavish almost shouted a suicidal warning, so certain was the blow and so unprepared seemed its lumbering target. The assembled humanoids grew silent in that instant, the collective breath of the monstrous army held in tense anticipation of the duel's outcome. Ignoring the impulse to close her eyes, Tavish watched in spellbound horror, waiting for the fatal penetration.

But suddenly it was the giant who, with lightning speed, dropped out of sight. In that instant, before even the monsters roared their approval or dismay, she understood. He had feigned his weakness.

The troll shrieked in agony and, though she couldn't see the firbolg, this time Tavish heard that mighty club smash into trollish bone. The horrid attacker fell, and the firbolg rose into her line of sight, lifting the club above his head and then driving it downward onto the unseen form below.

Again the troll howled, and for excruciating moments, the hidden bard watched the club rise and fall, hearing the piteous cries grow weaker, until finally they ceased altogether. Even then the club fell brutally three more times before the firbolg finally lowered the weapon to the dock. No sound emerged from the unseen form at his feet. In fact, Tavish couldn't imagine that the troll was anything more than a gory pulp.

At once, the firbolg stumbled, and several of his fellows dashed forward to support him. Tavish saw a stooped old female firbolg, who nevertheless stood at least eight feet tall, step forward to dab something at the giant's wound. Red blood continued to gush from the small slice, and finally the healer insisted that the warrior lie down.

Tavish drew back into her niche, intrigued enough by the scene she had witnessed to forget momentarily the painful cramps that had once again started to numb her legs. There seemed to be precious little unity in this monstrous army, for unless her guess was way off the mark, she had just observed a battle between the leaders of separate factions.

She wondered what would happen next. The possibility of waiting until dark and then trying to slip onto the dock began to have its appeal. Perhaps she could get ashore and disappear into the night.

Sunset was still many hours away, however, when firbolg after firbolg began to climb into the ship. As the bard drew back from clumping, intrusive feet, she hardly dared to breathe, cringing against the backbreaking thwart and pressing as far as she could under the low overhanging bench. She forced herself to be absolutely silent. At the same time, she wanted to scream her dismay, for she had no doubt as to what was going on.

And in fact, a few minutes later, her suspicions proved correct. The firbolgs pushed the Princess of Moonshae away from the dock and floated toward the rolling waters of the Strait of Oman.

Princess Deirdre stalked through Corwell Town in the dark of the night, wearing the guise of her magic as an impenetrable disguise. Those who passed her saw nothing save a ripple in the blackness. Perhaps they felt a shiver of disquiet as they hurried on their way, rationally certain that there was nothing there, yet spiritually unconvinced.

Thus undiscovered, she entered the hutch of a farmyard, finding a proud rooster slumbering peacefully on his roost nearby. With a sharp twist of her hands, she wrung the bird's neck, quickly dropping the feathered body into her large leather sack.

Next she came upon a dog, slumbering before its master's doorstep. The screen of nothingness was so impermeable that the hound didn't sense the young woman's approach, nor did it see the keen dagger that slit the coarse fur of its throat. Withdrawing the dripping blade, the princess lowered a small cup, collecting the blood that flowed from the severed artery.

She repeated the ritual with a great draft horse that stood slumbering in a livery yard, gathering the dying steed's blood in a larger container. Finally, then, she was ready to return to the castle on the knoll, which she did on the wings of her magic, disdaining the winding road that climbed toward the gatehouse and fortress walls.

Settling her feet on the lofty parapet of those walls, she searched for the final element of her brew. Undisguised now, she came upon a pacing guard. The man bowed respectfully, so he didn't see the still-crimson blade dart outward. He fell silently, staring mute and uncomprehending at the young woman who stood over his bleeding corpse.

Her eyes shining in the darkness, Deirdre knelt and gathered the last sample of blood. Then, in a swirl of her dark cloak, she passed through a door and entered the darkened hallways of the keep.

"Splendid. . the components of might are in your hands, my daughter." The immortal form of Talos twisted and heaved in anticipation. The princess of the Moonshaes was his now! He well knew that, with the striking of her dagger, she had forever turned her back on her people and their dying faith.

In his struggles, Talos had learned an important lesson-that the Earthmother must be struck away from the heart of her power, away from Myrloch Vale. Deirdre had begun that attack, gathering the vital tools of destruction. She would become a powerful agent of the New Gods, bringing the goddess to her knees in final defeat.

For that purpose, she would be linked to another tool. That one still slumbered to the north, but soon he would be awakened, emerging for his vengeance from the very shadow of the Icepeak.

The ultimate sword of chaos would be the demigod, Grond Peaksmasher, finally freed from his goddess-imposed confinement.