The Druid Queen

6

It seemed to Tristan Kendrick that layer after layer of his life-extraneous, civilized levels-fell away as he rode steadily northward. The complexities of gods and humans grew distant and remote as Caer Corwell dwindled to a speck on the horizon and finally disappeared in the haze of distance.

The comfortable weight of his chain mail armor, a long-past gift from his father, settled upon his shoulders. The sword given to him by Parell Hyath swung easily at his side, and the king reflected that the blade's weight felt good. It had been long since he had wielded a sword, and that sword had been a blade for the ages-the Sword of Cymrych Hugh. Yet now, so long after that weapon had vanished in the final triumph over the Darkwalker, it somehow seemed right that he again carry worthy steel.

Five powerful moorhounds, led by the redoubtable Ranthal, coursed proudly through the brush and hillocks. The lanky hound, covered with shaggy rust-colored fur and gifted with a keen nose and virtually limitless endurance, was a descendant of the mighty Canthus himself. Loping tirelessly, the pack leader sniffed and searched through the brush, eager to lead his packmates onto the spoor of any prey.

A high-backed saddle supported the king as the huge stallion, Shallot, easily crested the rises. With his gleaming palomino coat and snowy white mane and fetlocks, Shallot trotted and cantered with head held high, as if he knew that he bore the High King of the Ffolk on his back. As the monarch rode, the moors gradually merged into the highlands, the slopes becoming steeper, the crests more rocky and precipitous.

Even the skies blessed Tristan's endeavor, for the sun shone brightly the whole day long at the beginning of his ride. He rode generally along the line of the northern coast of Corwell Firth, but far enough inland that he avoided the settlements of fisherffolk lining the shore. It was enough that he had the company of his dogs and his horse; indeed, it gave him a sense of freedom and youth such as he hadn't known in many years.

Before sunset, he turned inland, intending to widely skirt the only significant town, Elyssyrr, along this coast. His course would take him northward into a rugged range of mountains, yet he relished the challenge of untraveled valleys and undiscovered passes. He still felt the pressure of time; he had to travel quickly! It was possible, even likely, that his path would take him into a box canyon instead of a pass, and he could lose a day's or more travel time with a long backtrack and detour. Yet, as with the entire concept of his solitary quest, he felt no lack of confidence. He rode in the service of the gods; therefore they would find him a path through the mountains.

Of course, even a moment's reflection told him that he couldn't expect to set his lance and charge into two hundred firbolgs and trolls. Yet here a serene faith took over in his mind, banishing any concern on this score. It was as if the gods around him urged him on, assuring him that they would take care of the rest.

The first night he made a comfortable camp atop a low mountaintop, relishing the brilliant arc of stars overhead. Already he was so remote from humanity that he saw no sign of fire or lamplight throughout the circumference of his horizon. In fact, he elected to eat a cold supper of bread, sausage, cheese, and wine rather than build himself a blaze that would have detracted from the brilliance of the night.

Snugly wrapped in his bedroll, he watched the stars until he drifted off to sleep. For a long time, he dreamed about many things, but most vividly he remembered floating on a dark, rolling sea, supported by a wide raft, yet alone upon a featureless expanse of water. Then he awakened, still hours before dawn, and thought that he beheld a miracle.

The sky to the north was aglow with spiraling lines and twisting columns of fire dancing on the surface of the world. They reached toward the stars, those flames, and flickered through cosmic colors-red and yellow, deep blue and pure, flaring white. For an hour, Tristan watched the lights of the north, and in them, he saw the blessings of the gods. Did they not illuminate the sky over his destination?

As if to confirm the magic of the scene, a chorus of wild voices arose from the forest, a song of joy wailing at the stars. It had been many years since Tristan had heard the call of the wolves, and a smile of contentment crossed his lips as he lay, powerfully moved, and listened to their song.

Considerably heartened, the High King drifted back to sleep. This time he dreamed that his ship was propelled by wide sails, fairly flying across the sea on a true and proper course. When he next awakened, it was dawn.

The village of Codscove huddled against the shore, protected by two outreaching peninsulas that served to wrap the bay and community in sheltering arms. Thurgol and Baatlrap watched the town from the vantage of a high hill only a mile or so inland. Not a large town by any means, Codscove was nonetheless the most populous location in the path of the steadily marching army of trolls and firbolgs.

"Good-no wall around it," observed the huge troll, studying the layout of buildings, streets, and waterfront.

Most of the buildings were small and made primarily of wood, with perhaps one or two walls of stone. In the center of the town, however, were several large stone structures-a small temple, some kind of warehouse or armory, and a sprawling house that must belong to the local lord. These three stood around three sides of a large square of grass, with the fourth side facing the water.

Several companies of men-at-arms, including twoscore armed with longbows, stood at ease in the village commons. Thurgol counted perhaps a dozen horses, with the telltale gleam of plate mail armor reflecting from the knights lounging nearby.

"I don't think they know we're so close," observed the giant-kin. Beside him a great wolfdog, its ears raised suspiciously at the settlement of hated humans, growled ominously.

"They'll find us soon enough," replied the brutal troll.

"There's a lot of people there," Thurgol pointed out, uncomfortable with the dispassionate nature of his companion's planning.

In fact, the firbolg chieftain realized, much of the march through Winterglen had turned into an orgy of destruction, with trolls ransacking and murdering wherever humans had been encountered. They had reached more and more of the farmsteads, increasingly less isolated from each other, as they neared the coast. On the last two days, however, every settlement they found had been abandoned, with all the human refugees apparently gathering in the little fishing hamlet before them. Even the wolfdogs had found slim pickings amid the deserted farms, though in several places, the great canines had run down cows or horses enough to feed the entire horde.

"Lots of people good-make nice booty for us," Baatlrap grunted, smacking his thin, bony lips.

Thurgol shook his head. "We cross water here. Why waste time with big attack?"

The giant troll regarded the firbolg chieftain with his deep, emotionless black eyes. Baatlrap raised a gnarled fist clenched into a ball of knotty green-covered bone. "We have to take boats!" He pointed at the small fleet of fishing craft bobbing in the shelter of Codsbay. "To do that-take town first."

The firbolg warrior was forced to admit that his hulking companion had a point, though it galled him to grant anything to the monster he came increasingly to regard as a dangerous rival.

"Let's go make plan," Baatlrap grunted, turning his back on the town and starting down the hill toward the blanket of forest that flowed halfway up the gradual slope. There waited the ragged army of trolls and firbolgs that had followed these two leaders from Myrloch Vale to the northern shore of Gwynneth.

"Attack tomorrow. I tell trolls," barked Baatlrap.

The two types of creatures maintained separate camps, with the trolls gathered closer to the fringe of the forest. They passed through a muddy clearing where the gaunt, wiry beasts flopped in relaxation after a day of marching. Baatlrap stopped here among his minions, while the giant chieftain continued toward the camp of his firbolgs. As he passed, Thurgol noted with surprise that there seemed to be a lot of trolls-more than he had remembered from the previous day. Then, as he reentered the forest to find the camp of the firbolgs, he met still another band of trolls-a dozen or more-coming to join the group in the meadow.

Finally he saw, hanging listlessly from the branch of a dead tree, the woolen banner created by Garisa. The rectangular flag bore a crude replication of the Silverhaft Axe, a white image sewn on a dark green background. The old shaman had proudly produced it during the course of the march, and now she insisted that the firbolgs fly it as a banner of war wherever the trail of the campaign led. Thurgol took little note of the flag as his brain worked over the implications of the large number of trolls assembled in the adjacent camp.

True, the numbers of the giant-kin had grown somewhat as well. Several bands of firbolgs, totalling nearly a score of new arrivals, had emerged from the wilderness to accompany Thurgol's ragged tribe. He had never suspected that this many giant-kin still dwelled in the fringes of the great valley, but word of this epic march had spread to even these remote reaches. As a rule, these smaller bands had suffered even worse luck on the hunt than had the Blackleaf clan.

Word of the Silverhaft Axe had crystallized within these firbolgs an urgency that had drawn them from fifty miles away, flocking to Garisa's rude banner. Thurgol hadn't done a detailed count of his troops. Since their number clearly exceeded the combined total of his fingers and toes, an accurate numbering was more or less out of the question. Nevertheless, he had begun to suspect that the army now included nearly as many trolls as firbolgs.

Of course, on the good side, this meant that they had a fairly respectable force. They might just succeed at taking Codscove, though Thurgol realized without enthusiasm that it was likely to be a bloody affair. And ever since the first massacre of the small steading in the forest, the firbolg had felt the control of this army, of its march and perhaps even the purpose of the grand quest, slipping away.

While he pondered, a great cheer rumbled upward from the camp through the woods. Obviously Baatlrap had just told his troops of the impending attack.

Sighing heavily-the cheering depressed him-the firbolg chieftain shouted to get the attention of his own troops. The shambling giants gathered into a great circle, and Thurgol began to speak.

He very much did not feel like cheering.

Robyn spoke with Alicia and Keane in the library less than an hour after the king's departure. Even through the woman's druidic veneer of tranquility, her daughter could tell that the High Queen was furious. Her face was white, and the muscles in her neck clenched spasmodically, as if she struggled to bite back words of rage.

"How could he do something so stupid?" Alicia demanded, bound by no such sense of restraint as her mother. "Does he intend to fight a hundred firbolgs alone?"

Robyn sighed. It seemed that her daughter's fury gave her the vent she needed to relax, at least slightly. "It's not stupid," she chided Alicia gently. "Never dismiss actions that are motivated by faith as mere lack of intelligence-and remember as well, your father is not a stupid man!"

"I know!" Alicia declared in exasperation. "But at least he could have let me go along with him-or Keane, or somebody!"

"It may as well have been an army then," Robyn replied with maddening calm. "For reasons understood only by him, he had to do this alone."

"But do we have to let him?"

"Yes … and perhaps no," Robyn replied. At Alicia's look of frustration, she continued: "I have to respect his wish to travel without an army. Much as I would like to fly above him, watching, perhaps assisting him from a distance, I cannot. It would be too much of a betrayal."

"What can we do, then?" demanded Alicia.

"I'm getting to that," Robyn responded, with a calm in her voice that seemed, at least slightly, to settle her daughter's agitation. "First we will raise an army. In fact, I've ordered Earl Randolph to start the criers through Corwell Town and onto the nearby cantrevs. The full companies are to assemble below the castle by tonight."

"Will you lead them?" asked the princess.

"As long as Deirdre remains in need of care, I'll have to remain here. So no, I won't lead them. That duty, my daughter, will have to fall to you… and to Keane."

For a moment, Alicia was speechless. Never had she commanded, or even given thought to commanding, troops in the field. Yet as the idea took hold, she felt growing confidence gained from recent experiences, and she found that the notion seemed quite natural. Too, it would be a comfort to have Keane's intelligence to rely on. The fact that he would be there with her gave her a bright flare of confidence.

"Do you want us to follow the king?" asked Keane.

"Not in so many words. That would be impossible, anyway, given how quickly I expect him to travel. But if you march northward with all speed, it may be that you can reach Winterglen before all is lost."

"Mother … the route of our march … it will take us through the heart of Myrloch Vale."

Robyn bit back her emotions again. The others could see that this fact troubled her deeply. Yet here she saw no alternative. "Any other route would take at least twice as long," she admitted. "And we don't have enough seaworthy ships in the harbor to transport a large number of men by sea. It breaks my heart to send armed men through the heart of the Earthmother's domain, but if this mission has any hope of success, it lies in a speedy march to the north. I'll try to give you a map of the easiest route-and the one least likely to leave permanent scars on the wilderness."

Robyn paused, thinking, before she continued. "You'll have to carry provisions with you. Take no game in Myrloch Vale itself. Do you understand?"

Alicia nodded. The command was no more than what she had already planned.

"Also, we know that you'll face trolls. Be sure to carry a good supply of oil."

Again the princess agreed. She knew that fire was the only way to permanently destroy the regenerating monsters, and the flammable liquid was the best way to incinerate the green-skinned corpses.

The queen continued. "Another thing-Newt's back on Gwynneth, in Myrloch Vale. At least, that's where he was when I flew out there a couple of days ago. Naturally he disappeared when I got to Cambro, and I was in such a hurry to get home that I didn't look for him on the way back."

"That's … news," Alicia said guardedly. She couldn't exactly call it good news. The faerie dragon's pranks and unpredictable, if well-intentioned, illusions had caused them trouble in the past. "Does he know that we're coming?"

"I don't know how much he heard about our plans. In any event, be warned-if the trees start to talk, or the flowers to dance, you might want to look around for our little friend."

"I will," Alicia sighed. In truth, she wouldn't mind Newt's presence that much. The faerie dragon was ever a bright and cheery soul, and despite his pranks, he had also proven to be a useful ally on more than one occasion.

"Will Hanrald and Brigit remain with the dwarves?" asked Keane.

"As far as I know you'll meet them with Finellen," Robyn replied. "And, depending on how Deirdre fares, I'll try to join you near your destination as well."

"I'm faring quite well, mother-thank you!" The younger daughter's voice came from the door of the library. Deirdre entered just then, followed by the looming bulk of the cleric Hyath. "You needn't post yourself at my bedside!"

Robyn's face flushed, though Alicia wasn't sure if it was because of her daughter's impudent tone or the hovering way the patriarch of Helm accompanied her into this family gathering.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded, curtly confronting the priest.

"I have come to offer my advice… and my services. After all, it seems that the High King has embarked on a quest motivated at least in part from his widening grasp of theological reality. Perhaps one, such as myself, who can offer an outside perspective may have useful counsel to offer."

"I agree," said Keane, drawing a surprised look from Robyn. She narrowed her eyes at the magic-user for a moment, and then turned back to the priest.

"Be seated, then," she invited with bare civility. Deirdre had already taken an empty chair when the cleric lowered his bulky form onto a wide couch.

"Now, then-you're discussing the muster of your army, perhaps?" inquired the Exalted Inquisitor. As Robyn's face betrayed her surprise at his timely information, he explained: "Your criers are doing a creditable job of spreading the word. I happened to be in the castle courtyard when the first announcement was made."

"Yes-the king might ride alone, but I intend to send an army as fast as possible on his trail."

"I'm surprised that a spiritual woman such as yourself doesn't put more stock in his chances! After all-Your Majesty-he embarks upon a holy quest!"

" 'Holy' is an altogether subjective term in this matter," Robyn retorted. "I will not disavow the possible connection, but neither am I willing to allow my husband to ride off to his death based on an error in judgment!"

"A sensible attitude," allowed the Exalted Inquisitor. "And one which I wholeheartedly support."

"How?" asked Alicia, frankly skeptical.

"I intend to accompany your army on its march against the giant-kin-that is, given your permission?" he added with a benign smile at the queen.

"I was given to understand that pressing duties called you back to the mainland," the High Queen noted.

"Indeed, Your Majesty-but I cannot absolve myself of this task, now that it has begun. You may recall it was I who first informed him of the menace on your island."

Robyn's jaw tightened. She said nothing.

"I repeat my offer of assistance," said the patriarch.

Robyn wasn't at all sure that her lack of permission would prevent the cleric's involvement in this task. Too, she felt that there was an advantage in having him where Keane and Alicia could keep an eye on his activities. Nevertheless, it galled her to openly allow him to accompany an army of Corwell on business that was rightly a private matter of the kingdom.

"We'll march pretty fast," Alicia objected in the meantime. "The troops answering the muster will be young, and fit-and the terrain won't allow us the luxury of a carriage or wagon."

The priest smiled, amused by Alicia's skeptical glance at his large belly. "I wouldn't worry about that, my princess-these feet have carried me many a mile in the service of my god. No, I won't have any trouble keeping up."

"You have my permission to go," Robyn said suddenly.

"With the clear understanding that the High Princess is the leader of the expedition, and you are subject to her commands in all matters."

"Of course," murmured the priest, with a polite nod toward Alicia.

The queen picked up a small bell on the table and chimed it firmly. In another moment a soft knock sounded at the door, and she called "Enter."

The portal opened to reveal a pair of burly men-at-arms, one mustachioed and bow-legged while the other sported a fully bearded face atop a tall, muscular frame.

"You know, I believe, Sergeants-Major Sands and Parsallas," the queen said as the two men entered and knelt. Alicia and Keane recognized them both as veteran and well-respected members of the garrison.

"Greetings, my queen… and princess, too," said Sands, the bow-legged officer, speaking for his companion as well. "The muster has gone out and we stand ready for your commands."

Robyn turned back to the princess. "These two men are loyal in all respects, solid veterans and wise soldiers. I suggest you give their advice some heed during the march." She turned back to the gruff-looking officers. "The Princess Alicia will command the expedition," she concluded.

"Very good, Your Majesty," said Parsallas, winking at Alicia. She remembered him as a good-humored and avuncular warrior, and the presence of the two veterans she found strongly heartening.

"Now," announced the High Queen, rising and speaking with a tone of finality that clearly ended the meeting. "You'd best start making your preparations. I expect you'll want to march with tomorrow's dawn."

The Princess of Moonshae encountered the storm on the fourth day out from Corwell, as she sailed steadily northward into the Sea of Moonshae. The hulking mass of Oman's Isle, gathered around the crowning summit of the Icepeak, had lain off the starboard horizon for more than a day. To port, though invisible in the distance, lay the northman-populated isle of Norland.

Prior to the gale the weather had been, if anything, exceptionally mild, with sporadic and unpredictable winds that kept the longship tacking for long hours with little forward progress. They had come through the Strait of the Leviathan in short order, but now that the sea had opened they couldn't seem to get a helpful wind. If it hadn't been for Tavish, who had amused the captain and crew with a wide assortment of musical tales, Brandon felt they might have all gone mad from boredom.

The Prince of Gnarhelm had begun to chafe at the delay, longing to see the great lodges of his home and to share the fellowship of his father's great hall. Too, the memory of the green-eyed princess he had left behind caused him constant agitation. Every little delay seemed, to Brandon Olafsson, a matter of damning frustration.

Then came the summer storm, boiling upward in the late afternoon, forming looming black thunderheads, dark and ominous even as the slanting rays of the sun outlined them in detailed relief. Within fifteen minutes the air whipped itself into a fury, howling down at them from the north with sudden rage and irresistible force. Winds lashed the formerly placid sea into a frothing maelstrom of angry, white-capped swells. Spray stung the young captain's eyes, blinding his crewmen too as the veteran sailors crouched in the hull. With the sail trimmed to a small square of canvas, Brandon squinted to the east.

He knew that the rocky shore of Oman's Isle lay somewhere in the murk, but he didn't know how close-so quickly had the waves and wind enclosed and blinded them. Yet he well remembered that this stretch of coast had few sheltered bays, and many long expanses of fang-toothed boulders and precipitous granite cliffs. They would find only disaster if they drew too close to the island.

"We've got to turn and run with the wind!" bellowed Knaff the Elder, Brandon's veteran helmsman. Now he clenched the tiller in his muscular hands as spray lashed his long gray hair back from his head, plastering his beard to his broad chest. He grinned in savage delight at nature's wrath, yet he was too good a sailor to want to risk the ship and crew in such an unequal contest.

Brandon's eyes swung to the north, bitterly reflecting the slow pace of their advance. An hour or two of running before this storm would cost them more than a day's worth of progress. He saw the stocky figure of Tavish, crouched behind the figurehead and staring at the spuming sea. If the bard hadn't been forced to take cover, the gods curse him if Brandon Olafsson would do so!

"Ride her out!" he commanded, squinting into the wind as if to prove that the gale was no match for a northman's determination.

Waves climbed before them, looming like mountains on the horizon, then crashing along the sleek hull. Skillfully Knaff steered between the crests wherever possible, and when the longship had to take a wave full upon her prow he guided her with stoic courage straight into the foaming teeth of the breakers.

The Princess of Moonshae wallowed up a steeply sloping wave, barely cresting the summit before a chaotic swirl of spray thundered around them, over the gunwales and washing down the length of the hull. Northman sailors, already bailing frantically, redoubled their efforts. Many cast wary eyes at their prince, wondering whether their captain's grim determination to proceed would prove the death of them all.

But even Brandon eventually had to face the inevitable. The wind drove at them too hard, the waves loomed too high, for the ship to maintain the steady northward course. Cursing silently against the gods that thwarted him, he shook his head in fury.

"All right!" he assented grimly. "Bring her around as soon as you can!"

A series of rolling crests tumbled past them and Knaff held the Princess steady through the succession of powerful blows. Then, spotting a momentary lull, he heeled hard on the rudder, bringing the sleek longship through a slashing turn on the inside of a rolling trough of seawater. The vessel lurched sickeningly on her beam, but then a quick adjustment by Knaff righted her atop a breaking crest.

Meanwhile, Tavish had backed away from the prow and settled herself on one of the rowing benches, keeping a secure grasp around a nearby thwart. The seas must have gotten too rough for her, the captain mused, deriving some satisfaction from the fact. He realized, then, that his rash course had been a foolish mistake, brought on by his own desire to confront the feelings that stormed within him. Just as well we turned, Brandon grunted to himself-imagine risking the lives of his crew, the survival of his ship, out of the brooding and longing for a Ffolkwoman!

But now the ship rode with the storm, not against it, and the waves rolled away from beneath the sturdy hull. Sliding forward with dizzying speed, the ship raced southward, propelled by the wind and the storm and careening across the choppy surface.

Full dark settled around them, and the storm's fury lasted for several more hours-hours during which the Princess of Moonshae raced with the wind, riding the pitching waves with elegant grace. For a time the strains of Tavish's harp accompanied them through the night, but finally the bard fell into a deep slumber. The ship raced on, surrounded now only by the sounds of the crashing sea.

Yet, as Brandon had feared, the miles swept by with dizzying speed. Though the storm faded into a stiff blow during the middle of the night, there was no longer any question of turning and challenging the wind-in the inky darkness, that would almost certainly prove to be a suicidal course.

Finally a gray light began to diffuse through the mist. A break in the clouds came with the dawn, and Brandon cursed when he saw the Icepeak, now laying far to the stern as it emerged from a low-hanging blanket of clouds. And still the wind blew from the north, blocking any serious attempt to return to their original course.

"The sea stands against us," Knaff noted, with a grunted acknowledgement of the prince's frustration.

"Aye," Brand muttered bitterly. He knew these isles, and knew that the direct route home was not a good path for this trip.

"Mark a course to the east," he said after a few moments consideration. "We'll take her through the Strait of Oman."

That route, known from many voyages to each of the veteran sailors, offered good shelter from a northerly gale, and although it represented an increase in distance, the overall time of the voyage could be reduced.

"Wise choice," Knaff announced in hearty acknowledgment.

Since the Princess of Moonshae had already passed the southern terminus of Oman's Isle, the helmsman immediately veered her to an easterly bearing. Within a few minutes, the swells around them grew noticeably smaller, with tops of steely gray or green rather than the angry whitecaps of the storm.

Only then did the crewmen breathe a collective sigh of relief, knowing they had at last entered the sheltered waters of the Strait of Oman.

In the night, Deirdre grew restless, rising and pacing her rooms like a caged animal. She cast a spell of silence around her, for she knew that her mother slept lightly in the next room. That was part of her tension, she knew. She felt trapped by the overweening presence of the druid queen.

Again she thought of her father, riding alone across Gwynneth against the forces of chaos. She felt like one of those forces, a powerful instrument, perhaps even a weapon, poised and ready for use.

And in the spirit of chaos, she had no idea of which way her weapon-herself-would strike.

"Now, my deadly blade. . now you grow finely honed, almost ready to strike…."

Talos chortled, sound gurgling like the seething of a volcanic caldron. The god of chaos and evil saw that his vengeance was near, yet for once, his attention was not directed at the princess who slowly prepared to serve him.

Instead, his delight was fixed upon a darkened forest clearing. There, repeating a ritual he had begun to master, a hulking troll raised a great axe and deliberately sliced off the fingers of his two hands.