The Druid Queen

5

Garisa snored, each exhalation flapping lips and cheeks like sails teased by a vagrant breeze. The sound itself was lost amid the chorus of similar rumbles and snorts from the giant-kin and trolls who slumbered all around, blissfully unmindful of the mass hangover awaiting the army with the coming dawn. A soft wash of light blossomed beside the giantess as she clutched the Silverhaft Axe even in sleep, while the massive bonfire had once again settled into a small mountain of glowing coals. Otherwise the village lay in darkness.

Only one shape stirred among this gathering of humanoids-a tall form, casting a long, almost sticklike shadow in the fading light of the coals. Baatlrap crept silently, stepping across firbolg and troll alike with uncharacteristic care. His black eyes, as devoid of obvious feeling as any walleyed salmon's, fixed unwaveringly on the gleaming blade.

Finally he crouched beside Garisa and carefully, moving no more than an inch at a time, tugged at the blade. Very slowly the axe moved out of her grip. Once the giantess snorted and stirred restlessly, and the hulking troll froze, talons poised above her neck. Then she settled again, and the gangly troll completed his surreptitious theft.

Clutching the weapon to his wiry chest, Baatlrap darted for the shelter of the surrounding forest, sprinting through the trees until he reached a point far removed from the village. Only then did he squat to the ground and examine his treasure.

A pattern of runes, indecipherable to the troll, danced across the broad blade. The surface was a mosaic of many diamonds, so masterfully cut that from the evidence of sight and touch, it might have been one flawless stone. The handle, of cold metal, was as smooth and shiny as silver, yet it seemed to possess an inner strength greater than any steel.

Yet beyond the physical beauty of the object, Baatlrap sensed a power in his hands that was deep and fundamental. He wondered if this was the power of Grond Peaksmasher, god of the firbolgs. Or could it be something more direct, more useful to the troll? In the dim recesses of his brain, he found images of dark thunderheads, leaden with storm and crackling with jagged bolts of lightning. In the destructive power of those storm clouds, he sensed his duty, his mission.

Slowly, deliberately, the great troll took the axe in his right hand. Still squatting, he placed his left wrist on the ground and stretched his five long fingers before him. With a cruel grimace-or perhaps it was a bizarre smile of wicked ecstasy-he brought the blade down sharply, hissing at the pain that lanced through his hand and arm. Green blood spurted from five wounds, while the severed digits twitched mindlessly on the ground.

His face still locked in that twisted grin, Baatlrap awkwardly transferred the axe to his mutilated hand. Already fingers had begun to sprout from the bloody stumps, while the pieces on the ground continued to twitch and writhe. Sharply chopping, Baatlrap repeated the gesture with his right hand, only then dropping the axe and settling back to nurse the pain in his two mangled limbs. For more than an hour he sat thus, while his own pain abated and ten pieces of his flesh danced at his feet.

Finally he rose, hoisting the axe with hands once more whole. His steps, when he started walking, led him back toward the camp, where he planned to return the axe to Garisa and get some sleep himself. Behind him, moving soundlessly through the shadowy wood and following their new master to his destination, came a file of ten young, wiry trolls.

Persuading the firbolgs and trolls to leave the virtually bottomless wine cellars of Cambro was no easy task, but Thurgol and Garisa set to it with stubborn determination. Even then they wouldn't have succeeded without the clear compulsion of Garisa's foretelling and the concrete and visible reminder of their cause, as embodied by the Silverhaft Axe.

Surprisingly, Baatlrap and the trolls proved remarkably enthusiastic. No sooner had Garisa hoisted the Silverhaft Axe to her shoulder and started toward the trail than the huge troll barked to his fellows and ordered them to fall in behind.

In fact, Baatlrap loped after the giantess with such a grimace on his gnarled features that Thurgol feared he would try to snatch the weapon out of Garisa's hands. While the chieftain didn't care who carried the artifact, he felt certain that the old hag would take exception, so he stepped into the troll's path to block him. The massive creature seemed even larger than normal to the giant chieftain, somehow looming higher into the air, his posture quivering on the verge of outright menace. Finally Baatlrap's tension relaxed. With a sneer at the diamond blade, the troll relaxed his pace, apparently content to follow a few steps behind Garisa.

They marched northward along the general course of Codsrun Creek, though the humanoid column remained miles to the east of that stream. Before them lay the only access to Myrloch Vale that did not require the traversing of a highland pass. Instead, the land remained generally flat, interspersed with forest and glade.

Thurgol did his best to force some sort of formation over his ragged mob. Ironically, the trolls were the easiest to control here. They had formed themselves into five companies of a dozen each. Baatlrap marched with three of these near the head of the column, his great, jagged-edged sword resting casually across his shoulder, while another dozen trolls brought up the rear. The fifth company scattered through the woods, serving as advance scouts and pickets along the flanks. For this duty, Thurgol admitted, the nimble trolls, with their almost tireless endurance, were far better suited than the lumbering giants.

The firbolgs Thurgol bunched mainly in the middle. A single-file column proved to be too ambitious, so he contented himself with various straggling groups keeping their comrades before and behind them in sight. A small group of firbolgs marched at the head of the column to provide advance warning of any potential trouble. The wolfdogs, several dozen of which accompanied the band on its march, coursed through the woods near this advance guard, frequently scaring up game and, whenever possible, running it down.

Garisa alone bore the Silverhaft Axe, carrying the weapon over her shoulder as if she were a young and swaggering warrior. The firbolg shaman wasn't as spry as the males, but she marched along steadily, without a grumble or complaint. The glittering facets of the great diamond blade drew the giant-kin onward far more effectively than any command or persuasion could have done.

Before they left Cambro, the giantess had applied herself to a dark green piece of burlap, using a bone needle to emblazon her material with white thread. She had gruffly refused to answer Thurgol's questions as to what she was making. Each night, beside a comfortable fire, she vigorously pressed her needle through the cloth.

It was several days after leaving Cambro that the rude army came to the first farmsteads. One of the point guards came lumbering back to Thurgol, panting with excitement.

"Humans! Houses! Cows!" he gasped, his meaty face flushing as he came to a skidding stop before his chieftain.

"Slow down! Where? How many? Did they see you?" demanded Thurgol, fingering his club in agitation.

"Up ahead-we not seen! Hide in bushes to watch. Some men plow in fields. One bangs a hammer against metal."

"How many houses?" pressed the chieftain.

"Dunno. Maybe five or eight."

"Good they didn't see you," he told the young giant, clapping him on the shoulder. Thurgol considered the options. Obviously they had passed from Myrloch Vale into the fringes of populated country. He knew that there weren't any large towns in this part of Gwynneth, but he didn't know how many villages they'd be likely to encounter. Since they hadn't yet been discovered, it seemed logical to skirt this village and try to put off the initial encounter as long as possible. After all, their goal wasn't to plunder and kill, but to cross the Strait of Oman and return the Silverhaft Axe to the Icepeak. It seemed sensible to delay their initial encounters with humankind for as long as possible. Yes, he decided firmly, this was a wise decision: They could circumvent this settlement by passing around it in the forest.

His self-congratulations were interrupted just then by shrill screams, terrified human voices raised in wails of ultimate horror. In the seconds that followed, the screaming voices ceased one by one, each abruptly silenced.

Bellowing inarticulately in his rage, Thurgol lumbered forward, quickly breaking into a plowed field. Before him, he saw the quaint wooden houses, surrounded by gardens and a few tall trees. Among the trees, large figures moved.

Trolls!

Most of the monsters were hunched over motionless figures on the ground, though a few raised bloodstained muzzles to regard the ranting firbolg charging toward them with impassive eyes.

At first glance, Thurgol counted a dozen of the brutes, and then he understood. The company of trolls that had ranged freely through the woods had come upon these humans and attacked, without waiting to report their discovery to Thurgol, or even Baatlrap.

"Good quick fight, huh?" grunted the latter as he loped up to Thurgol's side. "Good eats." Unlike the firbolgs, trolls commonly devoured the flesh of their human and demihuman victims.

But Thurgol was in no mood to debate differences in dietary etiquette. "Stupid fools! We don't need war with humans-just to carry axe through here!"

Baatlrap stopped in his tracks. The shadowy spots of eyes, beneath the overhanging brows of knobby green skin, seemed to smolder at the firbolg chieftain. "We fight-and kill-when we find enemies!" he snarled.

Furiously Thurgol swung his club at the troll, but Baatlrap blocked the blow with his hands. The force of the attack shoved the monster back several steps, and Thurgol heard bones snap. But Baatlrap still faced the giant-kin boldly. The two creatures stood eye to eye, and for a moment, Thurgol trembled with an almost irresistible desire to savagely attack the arrogant troll.

He noticed that several more of the gangly predators had collected around the pair of them, however. A few firbolgs had followed him from the forest, but they were significantly outnumbered at the moment. Forcing his muscles to obey his will, Thurgol lowered his club.

The plaintive bleating of sheep came to the chieftain's ears. Now the trolls butchered the farm animals! "Save cows and horses!" he shouted as a pair of trolls pursued a lumbering draft horse through the field. At least they could use some of the unfortunate creatures as beasts of burden, instead of killing them all and gaining far more fresh meat than they could possibly carry along.

With grudging satisfaction, he saw the two trolls seize the horse around the neck and drag the kicking creature toward the barn. At least he had some authority left.

Trying unsuccessfully to regard that small triumph as a victory, he turned his back on the scene of massacre and returned to his troops.

As soon as she reached the skies over the great lake, Robyn sensed that something was indeed wrong in Myrloch Vale. The High Queen soared almost effortlessly in the body of the great white hawk. Her eyes, keen beyond human conception, studied each leaf, each shady bower and rock-bound grotto in the valley sprawled around her.

The vista below appeared to be as pristine, as vibrantly healthful, as she could have hoped. Crystalline lake waters glistened in the light of the sun, and even the dank fenlands lay beneath a dense blanket of verdure. Tall pines waved their crowns proudly in a fresh breeze, and in places where the forest opened into meadow, dazzling wildflowers gleamed like priceless gems in a carefully crafted setting.

Yet something intangible, invisible to sight and sound and even smell, lingered in the air around her, telling her that violence had indeed invaded this place. As distressing as the discovery itself was the knowledge that she had not realized this fact earlier, even though Corwell was but a short distance-as the goddess reckoned distance-from this, the heartland of the Earthmother's realm.

She dove, building up tremendous speed and skimming within a few feet of the water's surface. Huge lake trout dove away from her shadow, but she ignored the prey, intent upon her mission. Nothing unnatural disturbed the waters, and soon she soared upward to crest the woodlands at the lake's northern shore. For hours she swept across the vast wilderness, still tormented by her earlier sense of distress and even more agitated by the fact that she could not more specifically identify it.

The coming of darkness surprised her and finally drew her down to the earth, where she landed in a forest of shadow. Shifting her shape as she touched the ground, she stood once again as a human woman, feet planted firmly beneath her.

But more than merely human, she was a druid-a druid who stood upon the most sacred earth known to her faith. The land welcomed her, and she felt strongly the blessings of the goddess. Yet still the sense of danger lingered, though with no more precise indication than before.

Guiding herself by scent and touch more than sight, since the forest was nearly fully dark around her, she found several ripe apples. She had brought some aged cheese, but preferred to save that for an emergency. The druid made a pleasant supper of the fruit, and finally she curled in a grassy bower to sleep until dawn.

She awakened before then, however, sitting upright with a start. An irresistible feeling came over her, a feeling that she was not alone.

"Who is it?" she hissed into the darkness, sniffing the air and listening for any sound. She heard a faint fluttering sound, as of wings beating quickly in the air.

"I get to ask that! Who is it?" The squeaking voice brought a wave of relief washing over Robyn, even as she wanted to reach out and strangle a scrawny neck for the fright she had felt.

"Newt!" she cried with a laugh, giving up her irritation in an instant. "How did you find me?"

"How many white hawks do you think we have out here, anyway? And how many humans camping on a pile of Corwellian sharp cheese? Downwind, I could smell it from miles away! Say, that's the aged one, isn't it? I remember the taste … a nice bite, just a little aftertaste…."

"Here!" Robyn said, still laughing. She reached into her pouch and pulled out a block of the cheese. "But first I have to see you!"

Immediately a soft light diffused Robyn's bower, coming from no place in particular. In another instant, a small, lizard-like creature popped into sight, hovering in the air before the druid queen.

The first thing Robyn saw about Newt, as always, was that wide, toothy grin that always seemed to extend farther to the sides than the width of his head. The faerie dragon was bright pink in color, reflecting his happiness at meeting his old friend, his hummingbird wings buzzing audibly now as he slowly settled to the ground.

No more than three feet in length, and nearly half of that was tail, Newt's body was nevertheless a reasonable approximation, in miniature, of a dragon's. Tiny scales coated him, except for his gossamer wings, and his face-perhaps in part because of its size-consistently bore a far more cheerful expression than one typically associated with the greater wyrms.

Now, resting on his haunches so that he could hold the cheese with both his forepaws, Newt busily stuffed the food into his mouth. Soon his cheeks bulged outward, and then he paused to chew contentedly. Robyn, relaxing again, let her old friend enjoy his repast. She had many questions for him, but she knew better than to press Newt for information.

Finally he finished, swallowing the better part of a full day's ration in one throat-stretching gulp. "So," he said, curling up in her lap, "what brings you back to the Vale?"

"Curiosity," Robyn replied evasively. The worst way to approach the faerie dragon, she knew, was with direct questioning. "After all, it's been a long time since I've been here."

"Me, too," Newt agreed. "I was over on Alaron for a little while."

A little while! Robyn smiled privately. The dragon had performed a duty there for twenty years! "Alicia told me. She said you were a great help to her and her companions."

"Say, I was, wasn't I?" Newt raised his head and puffed out his chest a measure. "I bet they'd still be wandering around the highlands over there if it weren't for me!"

"How long have you been back?" Robyn inquired casually.

"Oh, two or three days now-or is it two or three months? I always get those two mixed up. I got here before the firbolgs went over and smashed Cambro. Does that help? … What's the matter?"

Robyn had stiffened reflexively, stunned by the dragon's casual announcement. Cambro was the only dwarven community in Myrloch Vale. The queen had been there several times, albeit many years past. For centuries, the sturdy community had stood, a bulwark against the firbolgs that used to roam so aggressively through the highlands. Now, when the giant-kin had been all but obliterated, what force could propel them into such an attack?

"Anyway," Newt continued, "I came down to the lake here. I was doing some fishing along the shore when I saw you this afternoon. I chased you all the way to the woods, but then I lost you. Good thing you brought that cheese, or I wouldn't have found you. Say, you wouldn't have another little nibble in there, would you?" Newt's twitching nostrils revealed that he already knew the answer to the question.

Carefully Robyn broke a smaller piece off the block, asking as she passed it, "About Cambro-how badly was Cambro smashed? I didn't really hear much about it."

Newt shrugged. "Oh, you know-firbolgs and trolls dancing around a bonfire. They were waving a big silver axe around in the air and making a lot of noise. I couldn't even get to sleep until I flew a couple miles away!" he concluded indignantly.

"Firbolgs… and trolls. Are you sure, Newt?" Robyn asked intently.

"What do you think … I don't know a troll when I see one? Sure I'm sure!"

"What about the dwarves? Did you see any of them?" pressed the queen.

Newt shook his head in exasperation. "I told you-I saw firbolgs and trolls! You don't think the dwarves would invite them right in, do you?"

Robyn sighed and leaned back on her arms, frustrated and tense. She knew better than to ask Newt how many of the beasts he had seen. Suddenly she itched with the urge to fly north, to see Cambro and this brutal band of monsters. She didn't want to think of it as an army-there couldn't be that many of the gigantic humanoids on all Gwynneth … or could there?

"I'm going to Cambro today," she announced. "Want to come along?"

"Sure!" Newt beamed. "But why? Didn't I tell you it's full of giants and stuff? Why don't we go to Corwell, or someplace else that's friendly?"

By the time she had convinced the faerie dragon that she was determined in her choice of destination, a bare minimum of light sifted through the woods, and the stars overhead slowly disappeared into the dawn. Once again Robyn's body smoothly changed shape, and the figure of the white hawk soared into the still morning air. Buzzing beside her came the equally swift faerie dragon.

For a few hours, they flew, guided by Robyn's true sense of direction. Finally they saw the small clearing in its setting of low, rock-knobbed hills. As they swooped downward, she was relieved to see that most of the houses had suffered relatively little damage, though a few had been burned and others smashed into junk. The evidence of battle was all too indisputable.

Diving lower, she saw that the monsters had gone. Their tracks formed a plain, muddy rut extending northward from the village. Other figures, however, stood among the ruins, and as the hawk soared toward the ground, Robyn identified many of them. A number of dwarves regarded the great bird suspiciously, but none of them raised their crossbows-and in another moment, Robyn settled to the ground, standing proudly as the dark-haired druid queen. She wasn't surprised when Newt didn't appear, suspecting that he hovered around somewhere, invisibly observing this large gathering of strangers.

"Your Majesty!" Hanrald exclaimed, quickly dropping to one knee as she greeted him and bade him rise. Danrak, too, formally greeted the mistress of his druidic faith.

"And Brigit… and Finellen as well," Robyn said with a sad smile at the destruction around them. "How unfortunate that we old companions meet like this."

"It's a regular 'old campaigners' council," Finellen grumbled. "But we're too late."

"You weren't here when this happened? No wonder they got away with it," Robyn said, clapping the bearded dwarf-woman on the shoulder.

Gruffly, biting back her frustration, Finellen told Robyn what she had learned from Danrak and the physical evidence of the scene: the approximate number of the attackers-a remarkably accurate estimate of two hundred-and the fact that the brutes had marched off to the north. Missing from Cambro were considerable stockpiles of strong drink, as well as much treasure and the Silverhaft Axe, the prize artifact of the village.

Danrak added the information about the dwarven refugees. "We also received word just this morning that they've attacked some farmsteads in Winterglen. They're still marching north, toward the coast."

"We're going after them within the day," Finellen noted. "We've sent out a mustering of the clans, and I hope to add a few more warriors before we start out on the trail. But after that, it won't be more than a few days before we track these thugs down and attack!"

Robyn looked around. At best, Finellen had some fifty warriors in her company. Even if that number doubled, which didn't seem likely, they would be vastly outnumbered by the giant-kin.

"I can return to Corwell by tomorrow," she said, calculating distances and effort in her mind. "When King Tristan hears about this, he'll take immediate action-you know that! Why don't you consider holding back until he can join you? He can raise five hundred men-at-arms from Corwell Town alone. They'll be on the march within a few hours of the call. Then, with your forces united, you can make one solid, sure attack!"

Her arguments sounded persuasive and sensible to the humans and the elf, but Robyn could tell that Finellen didn't see them quite that way.

"Was Corwell sacked?" demanded the bearded warrior. This was the question that defined the dwarf's approach to the problem. "Since when do you think that we dwarves can't take care of ourselves?"

"That's not the case! What about the lessons we learned together twenty years ago, Finellen? Standing side by side against chaos-dwarves, Llewyrr, and humans-we faced down evil and we prevailed! Have you forgotten?" demanded the queen.

"No … I'll never forget," Finellen said sincerely. "But there's a case where the Darkwalker and its minions threatened all of us!"

"Didn't you hear Danrak say that human farmsteads have been ravaged by these beasts? Those are King Tristan's subjects. He would come out of duty to them even if Cambro still stood safe and snug! You'll not relinquish any sense of honor by waiting for him. Instead, you'll ensure that you earn the vengeance you so richly deserve!" And take away from the chance you'll lead your warriors into another tragedy, she added silently.

Finellen turned away to ponder for a moment. Finally she made her decision and faced the queen again, her expression skeptical but not unfriendly.

"I'll have to follow the trail… keep them in sight," she explained. "But I suppose I could hold off on the attack for a week or so, at least so long as it doesn't look like they're getting away."

How the giant-kin could "get away" on an island the size of Gwynneth eluded Robyn at the moment, but she was grateful for the dwarfwoman's concession.

"Very well," Robyn replied. "I'll start back to Corwell immediately. The king will be on the march shortly after I arrive, I'm certain!"

"A week," Finellen said grudgingly. "After that, I don't think I'll be able to hold back."

"Come in, my child. . It's good to see you walking about." It's good to see you period, the Exalted Inquisitor addended silently as Deirdre entered the anteroom of his apartments.

Indeed, the raven-haired princess of Callidyrr was a stunning beauty, with her ice-white skin, high cheekbones, and lush black hair. Her blue eyes, of a hue so dark it sometimes seemed like black, burned with an intensity that dissolved any thoughts of chilly arrogance within her proud, aloof body.

"I'm beginning to feel… alive again," Deirdre admitted, sinking to a low bench with a sigh. Even a short walk about the keep still exhausted her. Nevertheless, this was a considerable improvement from her nearly comatose state of a week earlier.

She had awakened several days before to find the patriarch of Helm at her side, holding her small hand in both of his large ones. Immediately she had felt a sense of trust toward the man, and as they had conversed-for a few minutes at first; later for hour after stimulating hour-she learned that here was a person who understood her!

This made him unique among her currently present family and friends. Deirdre found that the priest was a very devout man, absolutely subject to the will of his god, but the will of his god as Hyath himself interpreted it. The princess had been quick to grasp the fact that this gave him a certain amount of leeway in the pursuit of his doctrine.

And yet Helm did not seem displeased. She sensed an aura of godhood around the man, an indisputable fullness of power that bespoke more than mortal, or even magical, vitality. It was a strength unique from, and seemingly superior to, the druidic faith of her mother.

When Hyath spoke to her, his deep voice rumbled soothingly. He talked, not of his god, but of gods. Once again Deirdre found him clarifying things that she had never fully grasped before. The full pantheon of gods worshiped by all the peoples of the Realms she saw as a good thing, a strengthening by diversity that for many centuries had been unknown in the Moonshaes.

It was an outlook that differed fundamentally from her mother's interpretation of immortal will, as personified by the goddess Earthmother. Deirdre had heard often enough the central tenet of her mother's faith: According to Robyn, the Moonshaes were uniquely enchanted because of the purity of their goddess. If other deities-the druids called them "New Gods," though Deirdre knew this was a preposterous misstatement-exercised equal power in the isles, then the goddess must inevitably fade.

But for the first time, Deirdre examined this situation in a somewhat dispassionate light. What was such an inherently terrible thing about the acceptance of the New Gods? Hadn't Hyath already shown her how competition for worshipers bred strength, not weakness?

"Did you sleep without dreams last night?" inquired the patriarch.

"I don't know," Deirdre replied with a bemused shake of her head. "I certainly felt well rested in the morning, and Father tells me he didn't hear anything during the night."

"Splendid news," the cleric said benignly. "Tell me, did you have a chance to think about our conversation of last night?"

"Yes, I did. It's true that there's a lot of good land in Myrloch Vale, as you pointed out. Yet for some reason none of the Ffolk have ever farmed there."

"Superstitions perhaps?" supplied the Exalted Inquisitor.

"Yes-ancient fears of the goddess. It's as I told you. Many of the Ffolk don't realize that there are other gods who will watch and protect them."

"The spreading of this message is a great, even an historical, task-one that must be undertaken without any further delay."

For a long time, Deirdre kept silent. The implications of the patriarch's suggestions were not lost upon her. She found them strangely disturbing, but also motivating, in a sense that she couldn't quite identify.

"In any event, dear child, I'm delighted to see that your strength returns with such youthful vigor. If only your father would respond as well…."

"He seems robust enough," Deirdre noted.

"In the flesh, to be sure," the cleric explained. "But it is the wasting of the spirit wherein lies his danger. By refusing to accept the requirements of Helm, he denies the aid of a very powerful ally, one who could surely heal his wound and raise him to undreamed of greatness!"

Deirdre shook her head. "My father is a king of the Ffolk, and he holds the goddess in nearly the same reverence as does my mother. It's a thrall that I admit I can't understand. After all, he's shown a willingness to accept many other new concepts during his rule. Yet-for now at least-if Helm requires him to reject the worship of the Earthmother, I don't believe he will do so."

" 'Reject'-such a strong word," the Exalted Inquisitor soothed. "There only need be an implicit acknowledgment of the rights and places of other gods-an equal standing with the Earthmother, no more."

Deirdre sighed. It sounded so simple, so right when the patriarch explained things. Yet she knew that in her own life, the situation was a great deal more confused. She sensed an expanse of power and potential that dwarfed anything she had previously known, and she was reluctant, even unwilling, to abandon the spark that had been ignited.

A cry from the castle guards roused her from her meditation. At first she thought that an alarm had been sounded, but as she threw open the windows, she heard the joy and relief in the guardsman's voice.

"The High Queen returns!" he cried as other guards joined in the welcome. Deirdre saw the familiar form of the white hawk circling the castle, settling quickly toward the ground.

"A small army of firbolgs and trolls is on the march. They've sacked Cambro, and now they move to the north, toward the shoreline and the Strait of Oman."

Robyn spoke bluntly, standing before the hearth of the library while Tristan, her daughters, Keane, and the inquisitor listened to her report.

"Have they attacked any humans-any Ffolk?" asked Tristan grimly. The High King paced in agitation, his new sword swinging easily at his side and his gold circlet crown resting atop the fullness of his long, gray-brown hair.

"Yes-isolated villages … little more than groups of farmsteads. Codscove lies in their line of march, though they must be a few days away from there still."

"Thus is the prophecy of Helm fulfilled!" crowed the Exalted Inquisitor. He turned to face Tristan. "Your Majesty! This is the evil indicated by my god. Wipe it from the isles, and you will earn the blessings of his power."

"I can do no less, in any event," said Tristan. "Yet I fail to see how this makes any great service for Helm."

"Indeed," Robyn agreed. "The dwarves already march against this force, and I assured them that your help would be forthcoming. Finellen was reluctant to delay her attack, but I convinced her to give you time to get there with a body of men."

"Of course," Tristan agreed, though he sounded vaguely distracted. "That's what I must do. However many of the villains there are, I can't imagine that we'll have trouble dispatching them."

The king turned back to the cleric, an expression of puzzlement on his face. "That's why I can't see where this could be the will of your god any more than of my own goddess."

"Perhaps there is a thing about your quest that you have not fully grasped… that we have not yet understood."

Tristan, his hand on the hilt of his sword, whirled in agitation. He seemed about to say something, but then angrily shut his mouth, half-drawing the sword from its elegant scabbard. Quickly he resheathed the weapon and resumed his furious pacing.

"We have no time!" Robyn interrupted in irritation. "It will take the better part of a day to muster your men, and who knows how long to march them to Winterglen! Why waste that time arguing which god is served by your duty?"

"That's just it!" Tristan said, turning to his wife with real anguish on his face. "I'm confused about that duty. What if I'm missing something… going about this the wrong way?" He raised his left arm, with its all-too-abrupt termination.

"Call up the men!" Robyn repeated in tight-lipped urgency. "At least you can gather them to-"

"No!" Tristan barked the word so sharply that the High Queen bit her lip, glowering at the patriarch in barely concealed fury. "That's too easy!" the king continued. "There must be more to it… something I don't understand!"

"What are you talking about?" demanded the queen.

"My quest, you called it." Tristan seemed to be speaking to himself. "And time-that's important, too. Both of you, I think, have given me the guidance I need."

"What do you mean?" asked Robyn, concerned with the stubborn set of her husband's chin.

"There is a way I can face these giants and do honor to the gods, and also a way to reach them in far less time than needed for a column of men."

"No!" Robyn gasped, sensing his intent.

"Yes!" declared Tristan, rising from his chair and standing like the High King that he was in the center of the room. He drew the sword from its scabbard, and the silvery steel gleamed like a beacon in the room. The righteous gleam of the blade challenged even the brilliance of full daylight.

"I ride at once to face these monsters, and I journey in a fashion that places my success or failure in the hands of the gods!"

"You can't mean-" the queen persisted, but her husband cut her off with a chop of his hand.

"Indeed I do-for I shall go alone!"

The image of her father's quest flamed in Deirdre's eyes as she settled into bed on the night following his departure. Tension had crackled through the library following his announcement, with her mother actually reduced to tears at one point by the king's single-minded determination. Alicia, too, had created a scene, declaring that she would ride at her father's side. She had been rudely silenced by the determined king.

Only Deirdre and the inquisitor, it seemed, had watched the scene with dispassion. And then, an hour later, Tristan had ridden through the gates of Caer Corwell on his most powerful war-horse, accompanied only by five of his veteran moorhounds and armed with the gleaming sword.

Now, in the darkness, Deirdre sensed the interest of the gods in the High King's quest. He served the goddess, in his defiance of those creatures who actively wracked the Balance. And he also served Helm, for he placed his faith in the arms of a warlike god and fought against great odds. Perhaps he served all the New Gods, for though his quest was sanctified by the blessing of the Exalted Inquisitor, that patriarch had blessed the endeavor in the names of a full pantheon of deities.

And certainly, Deirdre sensed in the dim recesses of her mind, he served at least one other god besides the goddess Earthmother and the All-Seeing Eye. She sensed this in the core of herself, in the part of her body that was no longer fully human-that part that had been claimed when the mirror shattered and the shards of glass had pierced her without a wound.

She heard the deep voice of an immortal master, and it was not a thing of menace, for it did not try to command her. Instead, this potent deity listened to her needs, paid heed to the desires that had begun to grow in her mind, and slowly, gradually, began to show her the way.

Amid the vast halls of the gods, Talos and Helm observed the consultation in the Moonshaes with particular interest. The two mighty gods, diametrically opposed in almost all facets of value and belief, nevertheless agreed that the reign of the goddess must not be allowed to hold all other faiths aside. Each had his own tool, and each worked toward that aim.

Unknown to them, however, a third immortal power began to stir, to take an interest in the affairs of the Moonshaes. That one was not one of the greatest gods; indeed he was not a true god at all, but a demigod who had once stalked the mortal world of the Realms. Still, he did not lack for worshipers. Once the potent master of a powerful race, he now saw the chance to return to his once mighty glory.

This immortal lord was Grond Peaksmasher, and his children were the giant-kin.