A flurry of activity caught his attention, and he spun in time to see a huge troll lift something to his tooth-studded gap of a mouth. Baatlrap! Thurgol recognized the hulking form of the ugly beast as Baatlrap hoisted a scrawny rat by its tail. The troll's black eyes glared impassively at the firbolg chieftain, challenging him to object.
A scowl darkened Thurgol's face into an ominous thundercloud as he regarded the insolent troll. He restrained, with difficulty, a brutal urge to attack. Baatlrap was one of the few humanoids in Blackleaf, whether firbolg or trollish of blood, who possessed a true sword. The weapon lay beside him now, the bronze blade nearly as long as Thurgol's club, with a line of sharp serrations down each edge giving it a saw-toothed look. Baatlrap had used the sword, together with his truly impressive size, to bull his way to leadership of the troll community in Blackleaf. Now he tantalized the chieftain with his display of an actual morsel of meat.
But then, in the next instant, the rat disappeared. Smacking his thin, bony lips, Baatlrap grimaced in triumph. Thurgol flushed, knowing that the troll had waited until the chieftain could see him. The firbolg bit back the urge to charge over to the hulking troll, but with the morsel already consumed, there was nothing he could do in any event.
Fools! Rage caused the giant's limbs to tremble, and for a second, his temper threatened an explosion that would certainly have resulted in bloodshed, if not death, but then he whirled on his heel and stalked away, past the dirty caves and through the narrow, rocky niche that gave the village its only easy means of egress. Wolfdogs scuttled from his path, cringing away from the clublike feet that had on previous occasions booted many a canine posterior.
Too long they'd been hungry! Thurgol swung his hefty club, a tapered oak limb studded with round knots, into the base of a pine tree, grunting from the pain that shot down his arm. The tree swayed vigorously, but no sound of splintering treated the firbolg's ears.
That was different, also. As recently as last spring, that pine trunk, or any other of equal girth, would have snapped like a dry twig from such a blow. Now the trees were healthy again, thriving with a vibrancy they hadn't displayed for twenty years. All around him, throughout the great valley of Myrloch, the forests and meadows had surged into life with renewed vitality.
And the failure of the firbolg and troll hunters wasn't because the game had disappeared, either. If anything, the numbers of deer and rabbits, fox and squirrels, had increased during this vibrant season. But at the same time as life invigorated the plants, so had the animals become more alert, quicker, more nimble.
The hunting tactics of Thurgol and his band had always been crude, at best. The thrown rock was the deadliest weapon in the giant-kin arsenal, and the club, however heavy and knotted, was no way to bring down a deer. Of course, during the chieftain's youth, the band had possessed the Silverhaft Axe, and while that was no hunting weapon, at least in design, it seemed that the diamond-studded blade and whichever firbolg wielded it had always been able to provide fresh meat. Indeed, one of Thurgol's earliest memories was of a grand feast-a huge bear, slain by Klatnaught, the former chieftain, with the Silverhaft Axe. Klatnaught's wife, the shaman Garisa, had provided Thurgol with a tender morsel from the beast's ribs.
Yet it had now been two decades since the Silverhaft Axe had been stolen. During these past years, the firbolgs had ranged the width and breadth of the wide valley in the heart of the island of Gwynneth, stumbling across listless animals and bashing their brains out. Now, he knew, those days were gone, along with the mighty axe.
He came to the shore of a pool of still water. Previously he had come here to study his reflection, drawing comfort from the craggy precipice of his brow, the heavy jowls and large, wart-covered nose. Those features, together with his broad-girthed mass of shoulders and chest, his stumplike legs as sturdy as two weathered oak trunks, had combined to make Thurgol lord and master of Blackleaf.
But even that visage was lost to him now, thanks to the cloudy film that colored the previously clear water. Not only did the liquid have a distinct cast of milky white color, but in the full dark of the night, it also actually seemed to glow!
Thurgol wasn't terribly certain of the latter fact. On one night several weeks earlier, however, he had certainly gotten the impression that the pool possessed some kind of luminescence. On that occasion, shaken by a dim, supernatural fear, he had hastened back to the village, and he hadn't approached the pond after nightfall since.
Now, in his capacity as ruler, he knew that he had to do something about his people's current malaise. Thurgol liked having his pick of the wenches, and it was a source of great satisfaction for him to lord it over the trolls. In the past, those scaly, hideous humanoids wouldn't have consented to such an arrangement, but now the hard times in the vale had driven them to seek the protection of the firbolgs. Without Thurgol and his giant-kin, the trolls would almost certainly have been exterminated by the dwarves, who were the other significant occupants of northern Myrloch Vale.
For many years, the firbolgs and dwarves had existed in uneasy truce, sharing the large valley to the north of the great lake itself. The dwarves claimed the lands to the east of Codsrun Creek, the firbolgs to the west. Surrounded as they were by rugged highlands to north, east, and west, and isolated by the huge lake to the south, the two tribes had lived in seclusion from the rest of the Moonshae population. Indeed, since the druids had departed, precious few humans had even entered Myrloch Vale, much less tried to live there. The few rash enough to try the latter, of course, the trolls quickly found and devoured.
Suddenly Thurgol scratched his head. The druids, he knew, had begun to return. His eyes gleamed with the fervor of insight. Could there be a connection to the revitalized forest and the men and women who had once tended and preserved it? Grunting in frustration, the firbolg chief shook his head as the cognitive link proved to be too much of a mental challenge.
Still, the unease agitating him remained. He thought of the dwarves, spitting loudly as the image of the small, bearded pests filled his mind. Hateful runts, every one of them! Another thought occurred to him: The game eluded his tribe around Blackleaf, but did the dwarves continue to have plenty? In his heart of hearts, Thurgol became convinced that they did.
Perhaps the dwarves had stolen the game that rightly belonged to the tribe of Thurgol! The more he considered this possibility, the more he became convinced it was the truth. The complacency of twenty years of peace had lulled him and his people, and his ancient enemies had taken advantage of that lapse! The question of how the dwarves lured away his game did not trouble the giant-kin's dim intellect. It was enough that he had found a focus for his discontent
Finally-or perhaps foremost-there was the matter of the Silverhaft Axe. The priceless artifact had been the grand treasure of the firbolg clan during the first decades of Thurgol's life. The hallowed object was attributed a major role in the creation of the firbolg race and had been a wonder to look at.
Then, twenty years earlier, following the giant-kins' defeat in the Darkwalker War, the axe had been claimed by the victors, specifically the dwarves. Those short folk also revered the axe as a legendary artifact, and had regarded its possession by firbolgs as nothing short of heresy. The Myrloch dwarves had been only too glad to seize the axe as the spoils of war. Nevertheless, to Thurgol, it was his own tribe who had been wronged.
And then the gods, or fate, gave him further proof when he turned back toward the village, stepping roughly on a lush lilac. A rabbit scampered away from the foliage, and he swung mightily with his club. The knobbed weapon bounced from the ground scant inches from the terrified creature's puffball of a tail. The hare disappeared as Thurgol grunted in anguish, the rude shock jarring his elbow and wrenching his shoulder. Then his eyes narrowed suspiciously as he understood the import of the event
For the rabbit had fled eastward, toward the vale of the dwarves.
Day provided no respite for the weary Princess of Callidyrr. Deirdre lay awake, but for the mo
st part unaware. Her eyes remained open, staring vacantly about the room. Occasionally she allowed her mother-but no one else-to feed her broth or water. Other than that, she took no nourishment, responding listlessly or not at all to companionship.
A sense of complete weariness possessed her, an apathy that her mother and attending clerics suspected grew from her troubled nights.
Yet her mind remained alive and active. She knew fear, remembered desire. She felt an unspeakable horror of something that awaited her beyond the curtain of nightfall. Yet there was power there, and a certain allure that she couldn't deny.
Thus, at the same time as her terror grew, she found herself yearning for sunset
Talos the Stormbringer seethed in his rage. At every turn, it seemed, the revitalized goddess of the Ffolk thwarted and aggrieved him. Yet in his frustration, his immortal will congealed into a last grim purpose: He would strike at these impudent mortals; he would wound and dismay them.
For that task, he had one tool-a tool that was singularly suited to his purpose.
2
The Exalted Inquisitor
"Please, Alicia, reconsider! Sail with me to the north!" Brandon's arms held the princess against his brawny chest. Though the pressure of his grip was gentle, she felt suffocated, and gently she broke free.
Alicia looked up while the wind blew her bright golden hair back from her face. Her eyes of green searched the ice-blue gaze of the proud northman prince. Framed by high, proud cheekbones, her face tore at Brandon's heart so intensely that it hurt him to see it. At the same time, he found it absolutely impossible to look away.
Only a trace of this anguish showed on the sailing captain's own stern face. Dressed for sea, the northman had tied his long hair into twin braids, donning leather sandals to protect his feet. The day was warm, and so he wore merely a strap of bearskin across his loins.
"I must stay here in Corwell, at least for now, until Deirdre's better or…" She didn't want to voice the alternative.
"The goddess has a way of watching over her own, and your mother is the Earthmother's favored child. Deirdre is in very good hands." The words, soothingly spoken from behind her, told Alicia that Tavish had arrived at the waterfront. The princess felt a measure of relief as Brandon stepped back slightly, reluctant to display his feelings before anyone but his beloved.
The harpist wrapped an arm around Alicia's shoulders and pulled the younger woman close in a hug. Though Tavish neared sixty years of age, she remained as robust as, and a good deal stronger than, most women half her age. The bard's round face was split by her almost constant smile, her ever-present harp slung casually over her shoulder.
"It will be a delight to have music accompany our voyage," Brandon said, warming to the harpist's smile.
"And for my part, I look forward to seeing the lodges of the north again. I've always enjoyed the hospitality of Gnarhelm!"
"My father, I know, will be delighted with your return," the prince said sincerely. "King Kendrick couldn't hope for a more able ambassador!"
"Oh, I'm more of a tourist than an ambassador," the bard said modestly. Though she spoke the truth in bare fact, her presence in the northern kingdom would indeed serve to cement the bonds of peace that had survived for two decades between the disparate human cultures of the Moonshaes.
"Well, you two make your farewells," Tavish said genially. "I'll try to get myself loaded into the boat."
Beyond them, the Princess of Moonshae sat in the calm waters of Corwell Harbor. The planks of the graceful long-ship's hull had been scrubbed until they gleamed, the scrapes from her recent trials fully obliterated. Tavish crossed to the edge of the dock, where a small boat waited to take her and the captain out to the sleek vessel.
"Will her keel hold?" Alicia asked the prince, addressing Brandon's greatest concern during the past week.
"As strong as ever, and six inches wider in the beam!" The northman nodded, his mind reluctantly but inevitably turning to the longship that was his other great love. "But… your staff. Are you sure you want to leave your staff as part of the hull? I know it's a treasured artifact…."
"Yes … it's only right that the blessing of the goddess ride with the Princess of Moonshae," Alicia replied sincerely.
The enchanted shaft of wood, a druid's changestaff given to Alicia by her mother, had become a part of the great vessel when she used it to seal an otherwise fatal breach in the hull. Grown to the size of a small tree trunk, it remained wedged into a wide crack beside the longship's keel. Invisible to outside observation, it provided a smooth outer surface and a perfectly watertight seal beside the central timber of the hull. The ship had suffered grievous damage as Brandon captained the quest to rescue King Kendrick, and she couldn't help but feel that a gift of the staff would begin, in some small way, to restore the balance between her gratitude and guilt.
Yet all of her reflections, even her gift of the staff, Alicia knew, were simply means of avoiding the central issue confronting her now on this dock.
Tell him the truth, a voice whispered inside her head-a voice she forcefully ignored. She couldn't admit even to herself a fact that had slowly been growing in her heart and her mind: that she did not love this generous, handsome man who had risked his life and his ship to aid the rescue of her father.
She wanted to love him-indeed, a part of herself told her that she was obligated to love him. But neither of these altered the simple fact that she did not.
"I–I wish I could stay for the rest of the summer," Brandon said sincerely. "But my father must know of our safe return, and I have already been absent from my own kingdom for too long. You return to Callidyrr in the autumn?" concluded the prince.
"Always in the past we've left Corwell before the gales of Harvestide. I assume Father will want to do the same this year, but I'll send word to you about our plans. It's not as if you're sailing to the ends of the world!"
She wanted to speak lightly, but the words came out more harshly than she intended. She saw the hurt on Brandon's face and tried to ease it by taking his hand. "I will write," she promised.
He nodded glumly, then kissed her. She returned his embrace, but once again she relished a sense of freedom when he released her. Why can't I tell him? The question nagged at her, but she forced it away. She watched him step into the longboat that several kindly fisherffolk had provided. Tavish already sat near the bow, busily tuning the strings of her harp, though she stopped long enough to wave a cheery good-bye to the princess on the pier.
The Prince of Gnarhelm stood tall in the stern of the little boat as he was rowed to his proud longship. Alicia stood watching, waving finally as he climbed aboard the vessel. Wind quickly billowed the longship's sail, and the Princess of Moonshae turned her prow toward the gap in the breakwater. Smoothly she sliced through the waves, shrinking in size as Brandon set a course toward the mouth of Corwell Firth.
By that time, Alicia had already started back to the castle.
Keane saw that the house across from the shrine was indeed a magnificent residence. Set high upon the hill that protected the Upper City, it might have served as a palace to the monarch of some small state. Below swept a vista of the Lower City and its great, encircling arm of the Chionthar River, here widespread and placid, though it had another fifty miles of journey before it reached the sea.
A high wall of whitewashed stone surrounded and screened the grounds, but as he approached the steel-barred gate, Keane saw an expanse of fountains and formal gardens. Several cascading spumes of water splashed merrily, casting streams of spray through the crisp morning air. Detailed mosaics of colorful tile formed a wide walkway leading from the gate toward the columned portico before a grand manor. The house, as white as the walls, gleamed in the morning sunlight.
Though Keane could easily have teleported, levitated, or slipped invisibly into the compound, the nature of his business required him to make a more formal approach. Therefore the tall, lanky wizard wore his finest leather cape, a satin shirt of b
lue silk, and smooth, high-topped boots of soft doeskin.
A pair of guards in red livery snapped to attention behind the gate as the mage approached. Keane bowed politely before speaking.
"Is the Exalted Inquisitor present? I request the honor of an audience with him."
"The inquisitor is a very busy man," sniffed one of the guards, with a disdainful inspection of the magic-user's finery. "Whom shall we report is calling?"
"I am Keane of Callidyrr, serving as ambassador for His Majesty, High King Tristan Kendrick of the Moonshaes."
The guard's eyes, much to Keane's satisfaction, widened slightly at the information. The man turned and started for the house at a trot while the other guard took pains to effect an absolutely rigid stance. A few minutes later the first guard returned, accompanied by a short, chubby man in a white clerical robe. The symbol of Helm, the All-Seeing Eye encircled by a ring of platinum, bobbed against the latter's ample belly.
"A royal ambassador… this is a signal honor! Come in, come in, my good lord!" The cleric beamed at Keane, waddling forward and gesturing imperiously to the guard who still stood rigidly at his station. "Open that gate, man-and be quick about it!"
"Thank you," Keane murmured as the priest bowed and smiled.
"You come from the court of the Kendricks? Your king's name is known far and wide, of course-an honorable man and a wise and beneficent ruler! But, of course, you know that already. Perhaps there is something that I can help you with? I am the bishou of this temple and shrine-Bishou Harmanius." The rank of bishou was not unknown to Keane. Harmanius was an influential man and a powerful cleric-but not powerful enough for the mage's needs.
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