The Druid Queen

8

"How long do we wait?" muttered Finellen as Brigit and Hanrald joined her around the breakfast fire. The dwarven column had marched the breadth of Winterglen, remaining a day or two behind the giants and trolls. The trail had been easy to follow. Several experienced dwarven woodsmen preceded the main body, probing the forest thoroughly in order to discover any potential ambush.

"It'll take a few days for the king's army to get here," Hanrald cautioned. "We have to hold off until we can unite our forces."

"Bah-caution!" exclaimed Finellen, making a curse of the word. "It doesn't become me. It doesn't become any dwarven warrior when there's a plain enemy before us, and a blood foe at that!"

"But think how much more damage you'll do to that enemy once you have the force to properly strike them!"

Finellen huffed, spitting into the coals of the fire. Yet she found it hard to argue with that point. The monsters' trail, a wide swath through Winterglen, bespoke of a large force, and several smaller paths had intersected it along the way. The latter led to speculation that the army of monsters had grown since the sacking of Cambro.

On the other hand, Finellen had merely her fifty veteran warriors. Even if they were motivated to glory by battle against a blood foe, the outcome of such an unequal battle would be a foregone conclusion: a disaster for the outnumbered dwarves. Still, that didn't make it any easier for the dwarven captain to accept her forced inaction.

She looked around the quiet camp. Numerous well-screened cookfires dotted the woods, sending the aroma of bacon wafting through the trees but raising no telltale plumes of smoke. The dwarves took their time about eating, since they all knew that there was no purpose in haste. Still, it agitated Finellen even further to see such a lackadaisical attitude among dwarves on the trail of war.

A human stepped from a clump of trees beside the dwarven captain's group, and Finellen spun on her heel, sputtering with surprise, as Danrak bowed politely and settled to the ground beside the others. The druid's comings and goings were always abrupt, and he had a distressing way of appearing in the center of the dwarven camp without having been observed by any of the pickets.

"Well, what did you find out?" demanded the dwarfwoman bluntly.

"They march on Codscove, as we feared," replied the druid sadly. "I left the army last night as it gathered into two great camps beside the town. I don't doubt that by now they've attacked."

"Damn!" snapped the dwarf. "And we sit here a day's march away! How many towns have to get sacked before we-" Abruptly she clamped her mouth shut, her bristling chin fixed in determination.

"Everybody up!" she bellowed, her voice ringing through the forested camp. "Douse your fires and swallow your bacon! We march in three minutes!" Finellen turned back to her immediate companions. "Maybe we can't take 'em in a fixed battle, but if they're occupied with Codscove, we might be able to hurt them from behind."

"It beats sitting around waiting for help that might come too late," Hanrald agreed.

"It will come too late," noted Danrak, "if what I saw last night is any indication."

The dwarves responded with alacrity to their leader's command, and within the allotted minutes, the full column took to the trail. The light-footed scouts scattered to form their wide screen, while the two riders followed at the rear. Finellen had made the indisputable point that the pair of horses were a lot noisier than the sure-footed dwarves leading the formation.

A new sense of urgency propelled the dwarves of Cambro as word of Danrak's information spread through the ranks. They hoisted their weapons, grimly buoyed by the prospects of wetting them in the enemy's blood. As a consequence, the two riders had to urge their horses into a trot just to keep up.

"Thurgol-come here!" hissed Garisa, her piercing voice somehow penetrating the boisterous firbolg celebration. The battle outside remained forgotten as the giant-kin all crowded into the storage house. The noises of combat, with the humans of Codsbay fiercely contesting against Baatlrap's trolls, occasionally came to them through the stout wooden walls. The firbolgs, Thurgol included, had little interest in pursuing the fight.

Over the last few minutes, the chieftain had occasionally thought that perhaps he should hasten his creatures back to the attack, but somehow his heart couldn't support the effort. Hearing the shaman's cry now, the firbolg chieftain looked up from the broken keg he had just seized from a young and undisciplined member of his band, as opposed to the old and undisciplined giant-kin who also celebrated raucously in the huge storage depot.

"What is it?" Thurgol barked at the elderly shaman, irritated by everything going on around him. "Can't it wait? I'm busy!"

"Get over here, you great oaf!" she hissed, in a tone that couldn't help but gain his attention.

For a moment, the chieftain considered responding to the ancient hag with angry words or even a thump from his club, but he well remembered Garisa's command of things of the spirit world. He decided he'd best not tempt such unnatural forces and grudgingly climbed to his feet.

"Look!" she crowed, pointing out the crack beside the warehouse door. It was the same crack the humans had used to thrust out with their deadly spears.

"A ship!" he said, amazed at the appearance of a sleek northman longship gliding toward the wharf.

"Yes-it comes to Codsbay just when we need it!"

Thurgol considered, suddenly intrigued by the shaman's implied suggestion. He peered through the crack again, watching the tall, long-braided captain direct the vessel toward the waterfront. The human's attention remained fixed upon the melee on the great commons square. Obviously he wasn't aware of the large force of firbolgs hidden in the building, even closer to the dock.

The ship drew up to the wharf barely a rock's throw from the battered warehouse, and the strapping northern warrior sprang to the dock, holding a huge battle-axe in one hand and gesturing to his crew.

"For Tempus and Gnarhelm!" he bellowed, and twoscore screaming warriors poured onto the dock at his heels. Howling like madmen, they raced toward the melee on the town commons.

Perhaps a dozen men remained aboard the ship. One of them, a gray-haired veteran, held the rudder as if he were a fixture of the vessel, commanding the other crewmen to push off. The giant watched the northmen raise oars, saw that they would drive them against the dock, pushing the vessel away from shore until their shipmates returned.

In that instant of realization, Thurgol saw an opportunity and acted quickly to seize it before it was perhaps forever removed. Crashing a brawny shoulder into the door, he sent it smashing outward.

"Charge!" he cried, his deep voice rumbling beneath the shrill sounds of battle. Somehow the urgency in his command caught even the attention of the rambunctious giant-kin.

"The ship!" screeched Garisa in support. "Go and take it! Seize our means to the Icepeak!"

A dozen firbolgs followed Thurgol in the first rush out the door. The gray-haired helmsman saw them immediately and cursed loudly for his men to hurry.

But the ship was too close and too heavy to move away instantly. The chieftain crossed the ground to the dock in ten quick strides, and then a leap carried him through the air to land heavily in the bench-lined hull. The craft rocked surprisingly from his weight, not to mention that of his fellows as they, too, sprang into the sturdy vessel. At least, most of them landed in the hull. The momentum of each leaping giant pushed the ship farther from the pier, so that the last few firbolgs splashed into the chill waters of Codsbay.

Aboard the Princess of Moonshae, Thurgol recovered his balance quickly, smashing his club against a nimble North man and sending the man flying over the side. Another sprang toward him, his face etched into berserking fury, but two of the chieftain's warriors tackled the fellow, pitching him over the gunwale with ease.

The veteran helmsman, Thurgol saw, raised a heavy axe and stood firm beside his tiller. Several firbolgs advanced against him, and the chieftain was impressed to see that the man exhibited not a flicker of fear.

"Wait-save him for me!" Thurgol shouted, calling off his crewmates.

Hefting his club, stumbling slightly as he tried to keep his balance in the unsteady ship, the chief of the giant-kin stalked down the center of the hull. The helmsman, standing on a raised platform in the stern, met the giant almost eye-to-eye. Neither combatant showed any inclination to flee as they raised their weapons and bent knees into a battle stance.

The longship rocked under Thurgol's feet, and the giant staggered, trying to keep his balance. The northman had no such difficulty. He flicked his axe with uncanny speed, cutting a deep gash in the chieftain's forearm. Cursing from the pain of the wound, Thurgol stepped back and hefted his club protectively.

But the gray-haired helmsman wouldn't be drawn from his post. Thurgol studied his foe as the longship's rocking settled down. He was surprised by how old the fellow was. Despite his wiry limbs and strong, knotted hands, the helmsman's hair was thinning, and his face had been weathered by many decades of sea storms. Still, when the giant-kin advanced again, the deadly axe whirled outward once more, this time carving a niche out of the firbolg's knobby club.

"Take him, Thurgol!" came a taunting cry from one of his young warriors.

"He's only a human!" howled another, enjoying the duel.

From the sounds behind him, the chieftain knew that the other northmen in the ship must already be dead or thrown overboard. It irked him that he faced the last of these determined warriors and that this one guarded an obviously key piece of navigational equipment, though Thurgol was not entirely certain of the rudder's purpose.

"Back, beast!" snapped the man, staging a sudden rush at the looming giant-kin.

Thurgol took a step backward, raising his club as if to parry another blow. The axe whipped out, striking low this time, and the firbolg chieftain lunged toward the charging man. Thurgol ignored the pain as the axe blade bit deep into his thigh. He swung, then cursed as the man ducked beneath the blow. Casting aside the club, he closed his hands about the man's surprisingly frail chest and lifted him up. The man kicked and punched as the giant pitched him over the transom. Thurgol stumbled to the deck, his leg collapsing as the helmsman plunged into Codsbay.

The giant chieftain knelt, watching with surprise the fountain of blood spurting from his wounded leg, yet it was with a grim sense of satisfaction that he looked down the length of the hull at the grinning faces of a dozen firbolgs.

Most of their faces showed delight, though already a few had begun to cast longing glances back to the shore.

Shallot cruised through the open forest at a smooth trot, broad hooves pounding rhythmically against the soft dirt while widely spread tree trunks allowed the king to ride for the most part upright in the saddle. Occasionally he ducked his head beneath a low, knotted limb, and his lance trailed behind in order to avoid entanglements, but he was quite pleased by their rapid progress.

The hounds coursed through the woods before and around him, staying in sight but ranging freely back and forth, frequently scaring rabbits from concealment. The great dogs had become adept at pouncing on the fleeing hares, and Tristan had several skinned carcasses swinging from his saddle. Mindful of his lesson from the mouth of the wolf, he would take only enough meat to feed himself and the dogs at their evening meal. Tomorrow, he knew, the forest would provide him with such additional bounty as he might need.

For three days, he had ridden steadily northward, his mind fixed upon his mission, his concentration rapt on the thought of a monstrous horde that marched through his realm and threatened his subjects.

Yet even as he considered the threat, he never regretted his decision to ride alone. Whether it came from a sense of human arrogance or deity-inspired destiny, his determination remained fixed. It was his quest to challenge the monsters, to teach them to honor the peace and return to their homes, or perish in their defiance.

He passed through realms of forest giants, beauty unsurpassed throughout the Moonshaes. Trees that had lived for a thousand years raised their crowns hundreds of feet over his own, and he rode beneath them with scarcely a glance. Meadows of blossoms more brilliant and varied than gemstones in hue and shade sprawled around him, yet he took no note as Shallot's broad hooves pressed some of the blooms into dirt.

Tristan rode until after sunset, when the darkness began to shroud the forest and make further travel dangerous.

Selecting a sheltered glade, closely surrounded by lush, tall evergreens, he made a small fire and cooked a rabbit for himself, giving a raw carcass to each of his loyal hounds.

As the fire sank to good cooking coals, he stared into the embers, enjoying the sizzling smell of his meat. But his ears remained elsewhere, probing through the forest night, listening for a particular sound.

But he did not hear the wailing song of the wolves.

Brandon sank his axe into the muscle-bound gut of a troll, knocking the hulking beast backward. Kicking with his booted foot, he dropped the creature like a felled tree and hacked again. This time his blow nearly sliced the grotesque head from the thin, knobby shoulders.

"Fire-we need fire!" he shouted, knowing that unless the gnarled body was burned, the monster would climb back to its feet within a few minutes.

Pausing to gasp for breath, he looked around the bloody, mud-stained commons of Codscove. The sudden attack of fifty veteran northmen had, if not turned the tide, at least stabilized the battle for a moment. Indeed, the trolls fell back cautiously before Brandon's howling crewmen, the short, lunging charges of several mounted knights, and the grim determination of the townsmen themselves, many of whom had already paid the ultimate price for their courage, as evidenced by the dozens of bodies strewn through the streets of the town and across the field.

"Captain-the ship!" The panicked cry, from one of his young sailors, sent spears of terror shooting through the Prince of Gnarhelm even before he turned around.

But as he spun, those spears turned to rending knives, for he saw that the unthinkable had happened. The Princess of Moonshae rocked in the water as a dozen or more giant bodies-firbolgs! — staggered through the hull. He saw one of the creatures pick up Knaff the Elder and hurl the old helmsman into the bay.

Where had the monsters come from? His heart seemed to wither in his chest as he saw them overrun his beloved ship, and at the same time, he saw more of the creatures pouring from the warehouse at the shore. An ambush! Had the dull creatures waited for just such an opportunity?

Brandon had left a dozen men to guard the ship, commanding them to row it a short distance from shore to prevent such an attack. Groaning in disbelief, he saw oars raised, cracking against each other as the clumsy beasts tried to guide the ship. The hulking beast who had thrown Knaff overboard handled the trailing rudder, using it like an oar, slowly starting the Princess of Moonshae through a long, gradual pirouette.

Knaff and several other crewmen, meanwhile, splashed their way to shore, climbing onto the dock some distance from the firbolgs gathering along the shore.

The prince felt as though his heart and soul had been torn away. He loved that ship more than anything else in the world! At the same time, his northman's stubborn courage started him thinking about how to get it back.

An unholy shriek arose from the green behind him, and Brandon whirled in time to see the rank of trolls, reformed and healed, surging onto the commons again. This time a deeper roar emerged from the firbolgs at the wharf. Those who hadn't made it to the longship now turned back to the battle, finally ready to help their trollish allies.

A knight on horseback, apparently the captain of Codscove's militia, thundered past Brandon, his lance lowered, a red pennant trailing from his helm. The lance ripped through the chest of a troll, but the monster fastened long claws into the horse's flanks as it pounded past. More and more of the fearsome attackers leaped onto the valiant horseman, dragging him from the saddle and burying him beneath a slavering pile of horror.

The firbolgs lumbered forward too, more and more of them emerging from the smashed wreckage of the fish warehouse. Beyond them, beyond the dock, Brandon could see his once proud vessel, sail furled, hull rocking uneasily from the weight of her boisterous captors.

But the Prince of Gnarhelm had fought too many battles to dwell for long on the unattainable. He fixed his eyes upon one of the leading firbolgs, planted his feet firmly, and waited for the fellow to approach. The giant saw Brandon, sensed the challenge in his stance, and uttered a bellow of hatred. Raising a knotty club, the brute charged at the smaller human with the thunderous force of an avalanche.

At the last second, Brandon ducked his head and took one step to the side. The ground shook from the impact of the firbolg's club, but the northman's blow was already in motion. The giant-kin grunted, exposed for a moment as he leaned forward, his arms angling down to the ground with his club gripped firmly in his knobby fists. Brandon's axe sliced upward, above the arms, to chop deep into the firbolg's unprotected neck.

The giant fell with a strangled sound of bubbling air, thrashing on his face for only a moment before he perished in a growing circle of blood. By this time, Brandon had deflected the attack of a second firbolg, then stumbled back with the rest of his men, driven by the furious charge of the hulking humanoids.

Trolls shrieked in savage glee as they pressed home their attack, rending screaming humans with tooth and claw. Grunting giants closed from the other direction, pressing the valiant warriors off the now-muddy commons into a neighborhood of shacks and houses. Attacked from three sides, pressed by trolls and firbolgs, the humans of Codscove and their hapless allies from the north had only one choice. As a mass, with a few courageous knights and north-men guarding the rear, they fled toward the forest, abandoning their town to the brutal attackers.

Newt meandered through a clump of fading lilacs, relishing high summer in Myrloch Vale. There really was no better place in all the world, he decided. He wasn't at all hampered in his conclusion by the fact that he knew very little about the rest of the world, at least the parts that lay beyond the Moonshae Islands.

The faerie dragon was one who could find delight in the darkest winter night, in a howling tempest off the sea, or in the whistling scourge of a hot, dry wind. Yet there was something about summertime, and something about this great valley, that made for an unbeatable combination.

The faerie dragon's butterfly wings hummed through the air. Idly, without really paying attention to his appearance, Newt shifted his scales from the brilliant green of the surrounding foliage to the soft blues and purples of a field of columbine. He sniffed at a wild rose and his color became a matching crimson.

A noise in a thicket attracted Newt's attention, and he buzzed over to see what caused the commotion, blinking out of sight as a routine precaution. Pressing the lush branches aside, he saw a huge brown form hunched over a large rotten log.

A bear! The huge ursines were rare in the Moonshaes, and it had been many years since Newt had seen one, but he immediately remembered that the gruff, short-tempered creatures made for splendid entertainment.

Silently and invisibly the faerie dragon hovered above the bear, observing the broad paws, tipped with blunt but exceptionally long claws. The animal tore great chunks away from the log before leaning forward to snatch up plump grubs with a long, pink tongue.

The opportunity was too priceless to waste on a hastily conceived prank, so Newt took his time deciding what sort of illusion would be the most entertaining. Finally he settled upon a plan, staring downward with the concentration necessary to weave his simple spell.

The bear huffed in confusion as it detected something moving within the log. Rearing backward in surprise, the animal growled ominously, still unable to see the wriggling form.

Then the growl turned to a squawk of dismay as the wedged head of a huge viper slithered from the rotten log and darted toward the bear's shaggy belly.

Yowling in dismay, the huge creature turned a complete backward somersault as more and more of the snake emerged. The green-scaled body gathered into a monstrous coil around the log. A forked tongue flicked toward the bear, and the huge mammal backed farther away from its former meal. Then, with an angry bellow, it turned and blundered away through the brush.

The illusionary snake vanished as Newt chuckled delightedly. A big snake-he'd have to remember that one in the future! Still buzzing aimlessly, he drifted on, poking here and there among the forests and meadows of the vale.

It was some hours later that his nose picked up the scent of another victim. Hurrying forward, Newt came to a wide trail. Pacing easily along the ground below him was the lanky form of a great gray wolf.

Suppressing a delighted giggle, for wolves were among his favorite targets, Newt settled onto a high branch. He knew immediately that he'd use the same prank he had on the bear.

No sooner had he made his decision than the great, coiling serpent squirmed from the underbrush, slithering directly into the wolf's path. Newt forced himself to concentrate, quivering with eagerness as he awaited the canine's reaction.

Surprisingly, the wolf ignored the snake, even though the creature had formed a massive coil right before it! Instead, the wolf sat on its haunches and focused bright yellow eyes directly on the invisible faerie dragon above him.

Newt was so surprised that he almost fell off his limb, grasping with his foreclaws at the last moment. He looked at himself-yes, he was still invisible. Yet he couldn't avoid the sensation that the wolf stared directly at him. Somehow the animal knew the faerie dragon was there!

In another moment, the creature rose to his feet and loped quickly down the trail, running right through the snake! Disappointed, Newt looked after the departing carnivore, wondering what had gone wrong.

Then another scent came to him, wafting on the gentle breeze. Newt sprang into the air, the snake, the wolf, and everything else immediately forgotten.

Alicia and Keane followed the clear map Robyn had sketched for them. They found the pass into Myrloch Vale with no difficulty, though the narrow trail required the riders to dismount and the entire column of men-at-arms had to traverse the route in single file. At its crest, the twisting footpath curved around the exposed shoulder of a stony bluff, with a torrential stream carving its way through a gorge four hundred feet below.

Their march remained steady and well paced. Each man carried a knapsack filled with a plentiful supply of rations, and though the weight of the packs slowed them slightly, the fact that they didn't have to take time to hunt more than compensated for their slightly slower marching speed. In fact, each day they didn't seek a place to camp until less than an hour of daylight remained.

True to the queen's prediction, by nightfall, the army had reached the floor of the vale and found a comfortable camping place among the trees.

After giving the order to settle in for the night, the princess found herself reflecting on the responsibilities of her command. She felt humbled by her role, realizing that four hundred men depended on her for direction and leadership, that the benefits or tolls of this expedition would fall upon her shoulders. Yet at the same time, she felt a blazing determination to succeed, to follow her father northward and be ready to strike a blow against the army of giant-kin.

She found the silent presence of Keane reassuring. For once, the mage traveled without complaining, as if he, too, appreciated the splendors of Myrloch Vale.

Even the cleric of Helm blended easily with the rest of the party, despite his large size and the fact that he was one of the few who was mounted. He spoke sometimes to the men, although he camped somewhat off to the side from the rest of the troops. Nevertheless, he rose early and showed no difficulty maintaining the steady pace of the march.

"How far ahead of us do you think Father is?" Alicia asked Keane on the third night of their march.

"I imagine he's picking up a little distance each day. He might be all the way to Winterglen by now."

Alicia's eyes swung unconsciously to the north. For a brief moment, she felt a wave of hopelessness. How would they ever catch up to the king before his foolish quest got him killed?

Keane seemed to sense her unease. He didn't say anything, but instead laid a hand gently on her shoulder. The pressure of his fingers against her skin brought a flicker of hope to the young princess. Then he smiled, and her reciprocal expression came easily. She began to believe that, just perhaps, they would succeed.

Twang!

To Tavish, the sound of her harpstring seemed like a booming crash of thunder, easily the loudest sound that had ever occurred. She froze, pressing herself farther under the rowing bench and listening for the sounds of outraged, suspicious firbolgs.

But instead, the brutes continued to wage their gruff argument in the stern of the Princess of Moonshae. Tavish couldn't understand their guttural tongue, but she sensed that the fate of this captured prize was at stake.

The bard had been every bit as surprised as the northmen by the sudden rush of the giant-kin. She had ducked below one of the rowing benches as the boat had been overrun, and she had been able to squirm into a concealed niche between several water barrels and that lifesaving bench.

Now, however, she wondered what fate awaited her. Hidden in the hull of a ship manned by ungainly giants-none of whom had ever sailed before, she felt certain-Tavish had no idea what had befallen Brandon.

Then she felt a gentle bump against the wooden timbers, and she realized that the ship had been pulled up to the sturdy wooden wharf. Then, before she could digest this information, the boat rocked sickeningly, and the crescendo of giant voices rumbled much louder.

The Princess of Moonshae, Tavish realized, had been drawn to shore in the midst of the monstrous army.

The Earthmother remembered the coming of the giants, in the days of her dawning spring. Led by the hulking demigod, Grond Peaksmasher, they stormed across the Moonshaes while humankind still struggled among its own ranks for survival.

The invasion of these massive humanoids might have led to disaster, and it would have, had the giants and their master desired conquest. Yet the great creatures longed for peace, and they went to the secluded places of the Moonshaes, avoiding man, only turning him away from their haunts. They allowed him to live and to multiply, and all the while the numbers of the giants dwindled.

In the end, only the firbolgs-smallest of the giant-kin-had been left. They lived on many of the isles, and if they did not serve the Balance, neither did they work for its destruction. Over the course of centuries, the goddess learned their true nature, and it was not the nature of a threat.

Finally, when she gave them a place to dwell, she chose the realm of her heartland, and she offered them Myrloch.