The Druid Queen

4

Two proud steeds crested a grassy hill and paused restlessly, drawn back by their riders. One of the prancing mounts was a huge, shag-hoofed war-horse of chestnut brown; the other was a nimble, long-legged mare of purest white.

The pristine valley of Myrloch Vale swept away below them. Off to the right, the huge lake gleamed in the sunlight, heartbreakingly blue and dazzlingly clear even from a distance of more than ten miles. The placid water filled the southern end of the vast, roughly circular valley. The northern stretch of the vale sprawled beneath a blanket of lush vegetation, forests of pine, oak, aspen, and elm, interspersed by numerous meadows, each dotted with a blazing mosaic of flowers.

The riders were as diverse as the horses: A tall, strappingly powerful man rode the dark gelding. He wore no armor, but a huge sword swung easily at his side, and everything about his appearance suggested an accomplished warrior. He rode with the ease of a man born to horseback, guiding his horse with knee pressure alone as he gazed in wonder across the spectacular vista before him.

The white mare's rider was smaller and female, with straw-colored hair that tumbled about her shoulders and the slender, almost fragile features of an elf. Nevertheless she, too, rode with an easy grace that suggested many years of experience in the saddle. Now, like the human warrior, she paused reflectively to enjoy the sweep of valley below.

"It's spectacular!" said the man, after a few moments of silent admiration. "Every Ffolkman has heard of the Myrloch, of course, but it seems a shame that so few of us have seen it!"

"Perhaps that's why it's still spectacular," suggested the elfwoman dryly. "Do you think that a smelting house beside the stream or a smoking forge in the meadow would help the picture very much?"

The elf was Brigit Cu'Lyrran, Mistress Captain of the Sister Knights of Synnoria, and her prejudices against rapacious and populous humanity ran deep. Still, she smiled at her companion to take the sting from her words. Clearly she regarded him in an altogether different light than she did the vast bulk of his kinsmen.

"You're right," agreed Hanrald Blackstone, the Earl of Fairheight. "So much of its beauty comes from that same isolation."

The two had chosen to enter the vale from one of its eastern passes, taking the long route to Brigit's home in the elven valley of Synnoria. The detour would allow them to see some of the most beautiful terrain in the Moonshaes, according to Brigit. She hadn't said that it would also postpone the homecoming that she anticipated with a feeling akin to dread.

How, after all, could one of the prime protectors of Synnorian fastness go before the rulers of her people and tell them that she had fallen in love with a human? It was a question that Brigit still hadn't been able to answer, and so each day that postponed its necessity was another day of exhilarating freedom.

Hanrald Blackstone had no such weighty concerns. He knew only that he rode beside the woman who had come to mean life itself to him. He would follow where she led, confident in the love that bound them. Of course he knew that sooner or later he would have to return to his holding, in the kingdom of Callidyrr, but for now, that was a distant, unreal eventuality. Even further removed from his conscious thought was the knowledge that he would grow old and die in the space of the next half dozen decades, while his love could look forward to many centuries of vibrant life.

They came through the low pass of Aspenheight after six days of easy riding out of Caer Corwell. Each night they had camped under the stars, the goddess favoring them with clear skies and warm temperatures. Now, as they rode into the valley, they found another pristine meadow, surrounded by a protective ring of rocks arrayed as a perfect windbreak.

"How many more days until we reach Synnoria?" Hanrald inquired after they had built a small fire and settled back to watch the emerging stars.

"I don't want to think about it," Brigit replied honestly. "Let's cross the valley north of the lake. I haven't been up here in decades, and besides, I'm still not in any hurry to get home."

"Fine with me," Hanrald agreed, drawing the elfwoman close with a brawny arm. She curled against his side, and they watched-awestruck, as always-as the curtain of daylight drew back from the sky. The stars emerged for their nightly march across the heavens, and the two tiny creatures on the ground sat rapt in wonder, absorbed by the stately dance of the cosmos.

Later, as the night grew just a little cooler, they shared their own warmth and at last fell into a relaxed and restful slumber. In the morning, each awakened with a sense of vitality and alertness that, they deduced, must come from the enchanted nature of the valley itself.

For three days, they meandered easily through the glades and fields of pristine beauty. They crossed a shallow stream at a gravelly ford-Codsrun Creek, Brigit remembered. "Imagine-all the outflow of that great lake compressed into this little stream," she remarked.

They remained beside the splashing rivulet for the better part of an afternoon, diving into a placid pool and letting the sun dry them on the mossy bank. Once again the surroundings seemed so pastoral, so serene, that it seemed quite possible for the two of them to forget the cares and concerns of the outside world.

When they finally mounted again, they planned to ride only a few more miles before finding a place to camp. The forest was open here, with little underbrush and a wide expanse of grass and fern, so they loped easily along, relishing the rhythm of a good ride after their rest and swim.

Abruptly Hanrald's war-horse reared, almost dumping him from the saddle. Brigit cursed as her own mare sprang backward, whirling to face something that rustled in the bushes.

"Ambush!" cried the earl, spotting a number of small forms rushing toward them. Even as he shouted, he drew his massive sword while the great horse spun through a circle, kicking menacingly at the figures that materialized in the shadowy wood, apparently from nowhere.

The earl kneed his horse, ready to charge through the ring of attackers, when something held his assault. He saw that most of the stocky, bearded figures held metal-barbed crossbows, with perhaps a dozen of the deadly quarrels pointed at his chest and head. Reluctantly he relaxed the pressure of his legs, halting the charge before it began, though he still held both hands firmly around the hilt of his sword.

"Dwarves!" spat Brigit, the term as hateful as any curse.

"Dwarves who caught you in a tidy trap, we did!" proclaimed one of the stocky figures, swaggering forward with brawny hands wrapped around the hilt of a silver-bladed axe. Despite the creature's bristling beard, Hanrald realized, with considerable shock, that the speaker was female.

"You have no claim to this land!" shot back the elfwoman. Hanrald had never seen her so enraged. He worried that, despite the crossbows, she might do something rash.

"I think we're all visitors here," the earl said placatingly. He sheathed his sword as a gesture of goodwill. "There's no need for us to talk behind drawn blades or taut bows!"

"There is if we're going to be ambushed like skulking orcs!" retorted Brigit. She challenged the apparent leader of the dwarves. "By what right do you march through these woods?"

The dwarfwoman snorted derisively. "You ought to know. It's because of trouble in Synnoria that we've left the comfort of our village to go on the march!"

"What trouble-when?" demanded the elf, chilling at the thought that some dire fate had befallen her land during her absence.

"Coupla weeks ago," replied the dwarf. Hanrald was relieved to note that the crossbows finally had come down, though the ring of dwarves still held them in its center. "Something big came out of the mountain. We wanted to make sure that if it got away from you, we had fair warning up in Cambro."

Brigit shuddered at the memory, even as she felt a measure of relief. The Ityak-Ortheel, the Elf-Eater, had been a nightmarish intrusion into Synnoria, but it had finally been vanquished-with the help of her human companions. "You're too late," she said sharply. "The matter was settled without the necessity of dwarven intervention!"

The dwarf shrugged. "Well, it's been a long time since we marched on the war trail. You could say that we needed the practice-after all, it's been twenty years… Brigit."

"Finellen?" The elfwoman's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "I might have known it would be you!"

The dwarf laughed heartily. "You might have, but you didn't! Ho-there's a good joke! We march against the Darkwalker together, practically put King Kendrick on his throne, and you don't even remember your old axemate!"

Brigit's attitude remained carefully aloof, but Hanrald sensed that the danger of immediate battle had passed. Indeed Finellen chuckled again, slinging her axe from her belt. "We've got a camp a little ways away from here. That's where we were when we heard you coming, though we thought it might be a troop of giants, judging from the noise you made! Why don't you come and enjoy the hospitality of our fire?"

"That's the best invitation I've heard since the ambush!" Hanrald declared, with sincere relief. The two riders dismounted, and within a few minutes had been welcomed into the rude comfort of the dwarven camp.

The Exalted Inquisitor, as it turned out, hadn't been killed by the reaction to his spell-casting, but he had been very thoroughly stunned. Robyn was the first to realize that he still breathed, though she discovered this only after tending to her husband, who was dazed but apparently unhurt.

Five castle guardsmen were required to carry the hefty cleric to a bed, but finally he was situated comfortably, observed by a watchful maidservant, and covered against the evening's chill. The Kendricks and their companions returned to the library, where the High King lay on the couch, tended by anxious servants.

Tristan slowly recovered his tongue and his memories. "All I remember," he told his wife and daughter, "is a very drowsy feeling. Hyath's chanting seemed like it was going to put me right under. Quite relaxing, too. I was having some very pleasant memories.

"The next thing I remember, it seemed as though I was trapped in the middle of a thunderstorm. I saw lightning and heard the pounding-in fact, the flash was so bright that I was blinded for a moment. The next thing I remember, you were both standing there, and the priest was stretched out on the floor."

"But how?" demanded Alicia, frustrated. "What happened?"

"That's what I want to know!" the king added, with a look at Robyn. "What do you think?"

"This power, regeneration, is a thing of the New Gods," Robyn said slowly and carefully. Suddenly her voice grew tight, and her eyes shone with unshed tears as she looked her husband full in the face. "I was worried before, but now I'm terrified! This is a dangerous thing you try to do! Even the cleric of Helm doesn't have the power to control this magic. Please!" The plea was in her face as well as her words. "Don't venture into these realms. Accept your wound in the name of the Balance!"

"It is not the 'cleric' who lacks power to control this magic!" The stern voice, barked from the doorway, drew their attention in an instant.

The Exalted Inquisitor entered the room, his gold-trimmed robe trailing behind him like a full rank of attendants. He fixed Robyn with a fast, icy glare, an expression she returned in full, before stepping to the side of the king's bed and kneeling.

"Your Majesty, I understand now. During my slumber, Helm blessed me with a vision. I know what must be done!"

"Wait a minute!" blurted Alicia. "After what happened before? You don't mean you're going to try again?"

"Not immediately, no," replied Hyath, smiling benignly at the princess-like a forgiving schoolteacher to a dull student, Alicia thought angrily. "First there is something that must be done."

"What? What is it?" demanded Tristan, flinging aside the covers. "By the goddess, I don't need a sickbed!" he roared, climbing to his feet and crossing to one of the chairs before the hearth. "Sit down and tell me what you want," he said to the patriarch of Helm.

Robyn remained frozen in place, her face gone white with fear. Alicia crossed to her, angry with the priest but not understanding her mother's dire reaction. She sat beside her, taking her mother's hand.

"First there is a matter of honor and gratitude I would address." He raised the silk-wrapped package that Keane had seen him carry into the flying chariot. "It is a gift, if you will allow, from myself and, with your permission, from my god. It would please me greatly if it meets with your approval."

Curious, Tristan took the long shape and rested it across his knees. Awkwardly, limited by his one hand, he pulled the silk away, unrolling it through several layers before he revealed a splendid sword and a smooth leather scabbard.

"By the Great Mother, this is a weapon worthy of a king," Tristan breathed, his tone hushed and awestruck. He seized the gold-embossed hilt, which was narrow and sleek, sized for a single hand. Pulling slowly, he revealed inch after inch of silvery blade until the full expanse of keen steel, fully four feet long, came free of its leather sheath.

"I thank you, Patriarch," Tristan said softly. He stood and flourished the blade, relishing the smooth balance, the slender length and deadly edge, as sharp as any razor. "It is a blade I shall wear with pride."

"And with which, no doubt, you'll strive to do what is right for your people and your land. That will is yours alone. I shall tell you only that the blade is blessed by the gods, and only through its use will their will be known."

"A potent protection indeed," Tristan said, turning back to regard the cleric shrewdly. "Now tell me, priest, what is the nature of your vision?" asked the king, settling himself to listen.

"There is evil in your realm!" the cleric intoned firmly. "My god requires-nay, demands-that this evil be rooted out and destroyed!"

"Name this evil!" snapped Tristan, not at all happy about anyone demanding anything from him. He slapped the sword back into its scabbard, though he still held the weapon comfortably across his knees.

"It is a force on this very island, marching to war through a valley around a great lake-"

"Myrloch!" Robyn whispered, her pulse quickening.

"Already they ravage the dwarves. Soon they will turn against humans, elves-all who would live in peace!" The cleric spoke intensely, staring into Tristan's eyes. "It is an army that must be destroyed-destroyed by you!"

"What nonsense is this?" demanded the king, though his tone showed a trace of doubt. "Who would dare disturb the peace of Myrloch Vale?"

"The vision showed me great, misshapen creatures-giants, with gnarled tree-trunk legs and low, sloping foreheads. They carried clubs and hurled boulders."

"Firbolgs?" Tristan all but gasped. Since their defeat in the Darkwalker War twenty years ago, the few surviving giant-kin had withdrawn peacefully to their remote lairs, offering no disturbance. He stood in agitation, pacing to one end of the library before turning back to hear the Exalted Inquisitor continue detailing his vision.

"And other creatures were there, too-greenish of skin, with great noses and wicked talons. They, too, are monstrous, standing far taller than a man."

"Trolls?" The king shook his head in amazement. "It-it's preposterous!"

The cleric sat back and regarded the monarch silently.

"Why has there been no word? How long has this destruction been going on?"

Hyath shrugged. "I have no way of knowing. Is this 'Myrloch Vale' a remote place? Perhaps there have been no survivors following the rampages of such villages as can be found there."

"Not even any villages," the king admitted with a shake of his head.

"But there are druids!" Robyn snapped, rising and crossing the room to confront the two men. She felt confident now that the discussion had turned to Myrloch Vale. After all, she had received her training in the druidic arts there, and no place was more sacred to the worship of the goddess Earthmother. It was a place that was more than a second home to her; it was the heart and soul of her goddess's spirit. "And furthermore, if something threatened the sanctity of the vale, I would know it!"

The cleric didn't try to dispute her. Instead, he shrugged, a maddeningly casual expression, and directed himself to the king. "I can remain but a short time. However, if you decide to acknowledge the clear will of Helm, I shall make every effort to assist you so that we can complete the matter which has brought me here in the first place."

"There is no war-no army of monsters!" Robyn protested. "You'll be wasting your time!"

Tristan looked up at her, and she saw the distress in his eyes, the despair at the notion that he, a proud warrior-king, would remain a cripple for the rest of his life. She also saw the stubborn determination that had brought him to his throne and held him so securely to the wise course the two of them had plotted for the Ffolk.

"Are you absolutely sure?" he asked. "That there's no threat, no danger out there?"

She was sure, in her own mind, but again she saw that look of fear on her husband's face. It was a look she had seen very rarely, and now, as always before, it frightened her to think that Tristan was afraid. She couldn't increase that fear with a curt rejection of his hope.

"I don't know how it could be otherwise," she said gently. "But in order to make certain, I'll journey to the vale and see for myself. I hope your schedule will allow you to remain a day or two until my return," she added in an icy tone to the Exalted Inquisitor.

"Of course," he bowed, ignoring her manner. "But isn't this valley some distance away? Can you journey there and back in two days?"

"Patriarchs of Helm," Robyn concluded pointedly, "are not the only persons of faith who can travel with speed."

Her preparations were simple, and ten minutes later the High Queen bid her family farewell. She quickly climbed the steps of the high tower, acknowledging a tiny voice of alarm inside her, a voice that warned that the cleric of Helm might just possibly be right.

No! She would know if some evil disturbed the vale! Wouldn't she? Angrily but unsuccessfully, she tried to dispel the nagging doubt.

She reached the platform atop the tower and paused for a moment. Again the sweep of moor and firth spread below, but now the scene did not soothe her. Too many questions disturbed her mood as she stepped to the rim of the parapet.

Spreading her arms out wider, she toppled into the air.

Then a white hawk soared from the high tower, catching a powerful updraft and rising swiftly into the sky. The bird's course remained constantly northward, toward the wide valley of Myrloch.

Almost holding his breath in tense anticipation, Thurgol watched Garisa prepare for her foretelling. She had before her a smooth copper bowl, half filled with clear water. She sprinkled some dark dust into the bowl and stirred it with a grimy finger, smiling with satisfaction as the water dimmed to a murky brown.

She had placed the bowl beside the gleaming form of the Silverhaft Axe, explaining that the nearness of the artifact could only help the accuracy of the foretelling. In this she was right, for she had already decided what the prophecy was to be, and the weight of evidence provided by such a potent artifact, she knew, would make it virtually impossible for the thick-skulled firbolgs to dispute her.

"Now the gold," she declared, holding out a hand behind her. Several young firbolgs hastened to drop shining coins in her hands, coins that had just been liberated from dwarven treasuries.

Beyond the bunch of eager giant-kin, a sullen group of trolls, naturally centered around Baatlrap, looked on in rank skepticism. Thurgol was relieved that his firbolgs outnumbered the gangly beasts. It would be just like trolls, he thought, to ignore the clear will of the gods, the will that Garisa would certainly reveal to them. Wolfdogs skulked restlessly around the periphery of the gathering, nervously sensing the giants' agitation. Growls and snarls accompanied their anxious pacing, the smaller dogs staying well out of the paths of their larger kin.

Before the fire, the shaman spun her fingers around the bowl, bringing the water into a swirling whirlpool that washed up the insides of the bowl without losing a drop over the edge. Eagerly the firbolg chieftain watched the coins plop, one by one, into the water.

"I see …" Garisa mumbled after three coins had plunked into the bowl.

"What? What?" Thurgol pressed, before his comrades rudely hushed him. To the chieftain, the water had seemed relatively unchanged, still dark in color but quickly swallowing the coins without any display of pyrotechnics or, so far as he could see, any message from a god.

Another coin plopped into the water, then another. "More!" hissed Garisa, and her hand was once again filled with coins. She reached back into the water, stirring it faster and faster, dropping gold piece after gold piece into the swirling liquid until, by Thurgol's best estimate, perhaps twenty pieces of the precious metal lined the bottom of the bowl.

This was a small fortune by any firbolg's estimate, and he became increasingly worried about whatever command of the gods would require so much payment. And still Garisa stirred, while the trolls looked on with obvious scorn and secretly growing curiosity.

Finally all the second batch of coins had been dropped into the water, but this time the shaman did not demand more. Instead, she placed both hands in the water, stirring more diligently than ever, yet still taking great care to spill none of the enchanted liquid.

"I see the Silverhaft Axe-again!" she hissed, her voice taut with wonder. "It glows like a beacon before us! It is the summoning agent of the gods, making their will known in the Realms. And beyond the great weapon, rising to the heavens themselves, I see the pristine summit of the Icepeak!"

Thurgol squinted. He, personally, could see nothing even vaguely resembling a weapon or a landform in the murky water, but he wasn't about to challenge his shaman over the clear will of the gods. Furiously he tried to consider the implications of Garisa's words, but he could fathom no meaning there.

Abruptly, in a sweeping gesture, the old female picked up the bowl and tossed the water over her shoulder, in the direction-no doubt inadvertently-of the skeptical trolls. Baatlrap cursed as he was thoroughly doused, but all other eyes remained fixed on Garisa.

The water was the only thing that had flown from the bowl! The gold coins remained in the bottom, lined up in a passable imitation of an arrow. The sign pointed in a clear direction, after Garisa set the bowl down on the ground, and even the dimmest troll or firbolg could understand its import.

For the arrow pointed straight north. There, across the stormy Strait of Oman, they all knew, rose the highland ridge and its crowning glory, the Icepeak.

"Grond Peaksmasher …" Garisa said slowly, so that her words rang in the ears of all who were present. "He summons us northward in his hour of need."

"Northward? Where?" mumbled Thurgol, scratching his head as he looked at the golden arrow. It certainly looked like an arrow, and no one could doubt the fact that it pointed to the north. But still there was much he didn't understand.

"We must journey to the Icepeak, bearing the Silverhaft Axe before us!" Garisa proclaimed. "There we will find the Forger of Giants, frozen in the ice. Our task can only be to break him free!"

Even in the peaceful forest, Hanrald and Brigit noticed that Finellen's dwarves took careful precautions with their camp. For one thing, it was screened on all sides, concealed in a shallow, bowl-shaped depression and protected by thick stands of pines. Even a large blaze would have been well shielded, yet the dwarves burned small fires, feeding just enough fuel to build up a solid bed of coals for cooking and, later, to produce such warmth as the summer wilderness required.

Dwarves were common enough in the mining cantrev of Blackstone, Hanrald's home, but the young earl found the warriors of Finellen's band to be quite different from those familiar and cantankerous folk. The dwarves of Myrloch moved through the woods like beings who belonged there. They left little sign of their passage, and even their camp was a neatly arranged gathering, organized so as not to destroy several gardenlike clumps of columbine and bluebells.

"Is this just routine, or are you worried about something?" Hanrald asked Finellen, gesturing to the pairs of crossbow-armed lookouts posted around the camp.

"I just like to be careful," replied the gruff commander, whose manner had begun to soften under the influence of a good meal-exceptionally tender venison, Hanrald had been pleased to discover-and the flask of sour rum that the earl and the dwarf had begun to share.

Brigit's initial hostility had relaxed to something like guarded neutrality. Still, she said little during the meal and did not partake of the potent beverage.

"Actually," Finellen continued, "we haven't had any trouble for quite some time now. Old habits die hard, I guess. Why, back when I was young, there were bands of firbolgs in these heights that would get together and attack every few years. Life was interesting, then…."

"My father told the same kind of stories about the Fairheight Mountains," Hanrald agreed.

"Now we're lucky if we find an outlaw troll or two during the course of a year. Why, it's getting so a dwarf can't find an honest fight within a hundred miles!"

"I should think that would be cause for celebration," Brigit said acidly, the memories of the Elf-Eater's rampage still fresh in her mind.

"Oh, I suppose it is," Finellen agreed, without any trace of irritation. "Still, a gal who would like to keep her hand in things needs a little practice. Unless you think our friend Tristan's going to live forever."

"You know the High King?" asked Hanrald, astounded. He had never seen a dwarf anywhere near the Kendrick court.

"Knew him, I did," Finellen replied. "Let me see that flask. I don't want you to warm it too much with your big human hands." She took the bottle and swallowed a long, gurgling draft. "There, that's better."

"Finellen commanded the dwarves who served your king during the Darkwalker War," Brigit explained, less hostile than before. "Their services were quite … useful in determining the final outcome."

"Useful?" Finellen almost sputtered out a mouthful of sour, catching herself just in time to swallow before her outrage exploded. "Why, we cut down more firbolgs than you see trees in this forest!" she proclaimed. "And who stood in the trenches, holding the line, while the fancy-saddled riders pranced about on their horses and waited to steal all the glory?"

"I've heard tales of your valor," Hanrald said soothingly, though Finellen was right about the glory. In the histories of the campaign as the earl had learned them, the Sisters of Synnoria, clad in silver armor and mounted on their white steeds, played a far more dramatic role than had the stolid dwarves.

"I didn't expect anything else, really," Finellen groused good-naturedly. "And I'll swear to this very day, it was worth putting up with our pointy-eared allies in order to put King Tristan on the throne! He's the best thing that's happened to these islands in four generations-that's four generations of dwarves!" the bearded warrior concluded pointedly. Hanrald understood that she meant a good four centuries.

"That he's been, for Ffolk and northman too," the earl agreed. "The Treaty of Oman has lasted for twenty years!"

"A brief spark of time," Brigit noted, joining them beside the fire and finally taking a taste from Finellen's flask. "Can his peace last a hundred years, or two hundred, when his life must end in mere decades?"

"Yes!" Hanrald pressed. "Through his family, a dynasty that will carry the weight of his will and his wisdom, as well as that of his queen!"

"But who's to say that the ruler who follows will wield that might well?" countered the elf. It seemed to Hanrald as if she tried to debate contradictions within her own mind as much as with him.

"In Alicia, I believe the first-" Hanrald broke off in mid-sentence as a shadow of movement off to the side distracted him. He turned in astonishment to see a man standing at the very edge of their fireside.

Finellen cursed and sputtered, this time spitting the rum onto the fire so that it flashed brightly.

"Where did-how did you get here!" she demanded, bouncing to her feet and reaching for the axe at her side. Other dwarves shouted indignantly and reached for weapons, while the guards at the fringe of the camp began cursing each other for the lapse in diligence.

"Peace," said the man, holding up his hands so that they could see he held no weapon. "I come to speak with you, not to attack."

"How did you get past my guards?" demanded the dwarven captain, still indignant.

"With the help of the goddess," the fellow said quietly. "I am Danrak, druid of Myrloch."

The priest of nature was a nondescript man with long, carelessly tossed hair that was nevertheless full-grown and clean. No more than average size of frame, his shoulders were as broad as a wrestler's, and an unspoken grace and strength lurked in his body, visible even as he walked the few steps to the fire.

"It's all right," Finellen assured her warriors, and the members of the band grudgingly returned to their own fires. She kept her eyes on the druid, however. "Why was this necessary?"

"I had thought, under the circumstances, that your guards might be a little edgy. I preferred to speak with their captain before taking an arrow through any part of me."

"Circumstances?" demanded Finellen. "What circumstances?"

The druid's eyes widened in surprise-and something else. Sadness, Hanrald realized with a strong sense of foreboding.

"I–I'm sorry," Danrak said, faltering for the first time.

"What is it, by the goddess?" stormed Finellen, trying unsuccessfully to keep her voice to a low hiss. The dwarven captain shared the earl's dire sensation of threat, Hanrald could tell.

"It's Cambro," the druid said quietly. "It was attacked yesterday by an army of firbolgs and trolls."

Finellen sat in absolute silence for a moment, a silence that was as painful to Hanrald as a consuming explosion of temper. Finally she exhaled, a long, drawn-out breath that seemed to continue for the better part of a minute.

"How bad was it?" she asked, in a voice like the dull rasp of a saw.

"Many dwarves escaped-most, I think," Danrak said. "Though they left the village in the hands of the attackers. When I last observed the brutes, the night before yesterday, they were engaged in a bit of victory celebration."

"I can imagine," growled Finellen. "We'd just poured the last three years' vintage from their aging to their storage casks. I'd guess they would have found plenty of them. Any prisoners?"

"None that I saw," Danrak replied. "And as I told you, many dwarves escaped with their lives-though not much more. I met a number of them in the woods."

"Where are the dwarves now?"

"One of our order, Isolde, has taken them to various shelters in the Winterglen. They are safe there and have plenty of food and drink. Naturally they desire to return to their homes."

"Why did I let myself get drawn away?" groaned Finellen, lowering her head dejectedly into her hands. "I take the best warriors in the village and go off on some wild-goose chase, while the real threat is right in our own back yards!"

"It wasn't a wild-goose chase!" Hanrald interjected. "I saw that Elf-Eater, and if it had gotten out of Synnoria, you'd have desperately needed fair notice!"

"He's right," Brigit agreed, surprisingly sympathetic. "You were wise to examine the threat that menaced Synnoria, just as I have every intention now of finding out about this so-called 'army' of firbolgs and trolls."

"Are the bastards still in Cambro?" inquired the dwarf, only the deadly gleam in her eyes revealing her grim determination.

"I don't know. I was able to eavesdrop on some of their celebration. It seems that they plan to march north," Danrak declared.

"Why, that'll take them right into the Winterglen!" barked Finellen, perceiving the peril to the refugee dwarves.

The druid, however, raised a calming hand. "Your village-mates are well hidden-for the most part, in caves and the like. You don't need to worry about them, even if the beasts march within a dozen feet. More to the point, why do they go north?"

"There's nothing in their path except for a few tiny villages of Ffolk and northmen," Brigit pictured, remembering Gwynneth's geography. "Then they'll reach the Strait of Oman."

"Perhaps they want to go for a swim," Hanrald suggested wryly.

"Whatever it is, they've got to be hunted down and destroyed. I've got fifty brave dwarves here who've got just the axes for the job!"

Hanrald looked at Brigit with a raised eyebrow. "As a loyal subject of my king, I'm duty-bound to find out what this is all about," he declared.

"Better get some sleep, then," warned Finellen. "We'll be down the trail before first light."

Deirdre rose from her bed during the darkest hours of the night, relieved to see that heavy clouds obscured the sliver of a moon. She went to her window, casting open the shutters to a scene of absolute black.

Her window faced away from the town, and not so much as a glimmer of lamplight disturbed the invisible blackness of the rolling moor. She stood there for a long time, letting the darkness wash over her.

It was easy to imagine the great void in which she had floated during her dreams. No stars gleamed through the overcast, and the distant expanse before her may as well have been an infinite cosmos. She listened for the voices of the gods….

Talos and Helm circled warily amid the infinite cosmos, each prepared to smite the other with thunderbolt or cyclone, yet each at the moment more concerned with the intransigence of the earth goddess ruling a small and isolated group of islands.

And so to that common foe the two gods turned their schemes, though neither neglected to maintain a suspicious watch upon the other.

Still, against the Earthmother, their powers would be far greater than alone, for each could bring to bear his most powerful tool-and both tools could be made to serve the common end.

In the case of Helm, this asset was his most accomplished servant, the Exalted Inquisitor himself. For Talos, the living weapon was none other than the Princess Deirdre, with her secret and crystal-hard soul.