The Druid Queen tdt-3

by Douglas Niles

  The Earl and the Elfwoman

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "Myrloch!" Robyn whispered, her pulse quickening.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  The cleric sat back and regarded the monarch silently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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