The Druid Queen tdt-3

by Douglas Niles

  "I like the change in the weather, myself!" Tavish announced, coming to the stern to join the two men. "Though you did a nice job of riding it out," she added.

  "Those are the squalls that give the Sea of Moonshae its character," Knaff joked. The bard was forced to smile. Weeks earlier, before the rescue of King Kendrick, the old helmsman had been appalled at the thought of a female sailing on his ship. Now he welcomed her with easy grace and humor.

  "It had quite enough character for me," she replied. "And personally I think that sunlight does a lot to improve the look of the waves."

  "Aye-sparkle like diamonds, they do," Knaff said, resting his elbows on the transom with a sigh. Tavish leaned against the stern beside him, and the two of them watched the wake trail across the rolling blue waters of the strait.

  "Well, someone's got to pilot this ship!" grumbled Brandon, annoyed that the two found it so easy to relax.

  The prince cursed softly, then stalked through the hull, irritated that Knaff could be so calming when the prince didn't want to be calmed. He didn't want his tension soothed, and he wasn't even certain that his anger was caused by the diversion in their voyage. When he thought about it, he didn't want to be in Gnarhelm now, either.

  No. Instead, he wanted to be with Alicia Kendrick.

  "Smoke, Captain-off the starboard bow!"

  The cry came from a lookout perched near the longship's sweeping figurehead as the Princess of Moonshae rushed along the shore of Gwynneth. With one arm wrapped around the proud and beautiful image carved from dark hardwood, the sailor at the bow shielded his eyes against the bright morning sun and then pointed to shore.

  They all saw it then: a thin black plume rising a dozen or more miles away. As they watched, the column seemed to thicken, as if more and more tinder was added to the blaze.

  "It's coming from the shore, inside a small bay," the lookout amplified.

  "Codscove!" Brandon immediately guessed. There were only a few towns along these remote coasts, and though he had never been there, as a good captain he had learned of every possible haven and landfall in the Moonshae Islands.

  "Take her into the bay," he commanded without a moment's hesitation. He was propelled mainly by curiosity, but the volume of smoke in the air indicated that they might have come upon a scene of real trouble.

  "Hop to those oars, you laggards!" barked Knaff, wheeling on the rudder to send the ship running in toward the shoreline. The sail still bulged from the wind, but the experienced helmsman knew that the crew would likely have to row once they entered the sheltered bay.

  Soon the Princess of Moonshae swept between the out-flung peninsulas that bracketed Codsbay and protected the cozy town along the shore-protected it, at least, from the ravages of impersonal nature.

  Now that community was anything but cozy, however, and it was obviously in need of more practical protection. Brandon saw numerous buildings ablaze and struggling figures on the wide commons in the center of the town. Riders dashed back and forth, and hulking attackers loomed beyond. They swiftly drew closer, and more details became apparent. The attackers were large and green-colored, with wiry limbs and beaklike noses, readily identifiable even from half a mile at sea.

  "Trolls!" shouted the lookout, for the benefit of his less keen-eyed crewmates.

  Once again the men looked to their captain for orders, and again Brandon didn't hesitate. This wasn't their fight. Most of the inhabitants of Codscove were Ffolk, although a few northmen had settled here in centuries past. Nevertheless, the frustration that had nagged at him, plus the knowledge that these were King Kendrick's subjects-Alicia's subjects-gave him no room for consideration or doubt.

  "Take up your arms, men!" he bellowed, hefting his own double-bitted axe. "We're going ashore!"

  With strong strokes of the oars, his crewmen pushed the Princess of Moonshae straight toward the broad docks of Codscove.

  Deirdre stalked the halls of the palace, more and more agitated by the enclosing walls, the deferential servants, and her solicitous family. By nightfall, she knew that she had had enough.

  She returned to her apartments with the announcement that she intended to go to bed early. Then she barred the door, ostensibly so that no one would disturb her rest. She knew that her mother would no longer hear crying out in the night, nor any of the sounds of distress and agitation that had marked some earlier evenings.

  Deirdre shuttered her window, lit several candles, and assumed a posture of meditation in the small parlor beside her bedroom. The princess grew more and more proficient at this ritual of faith. This time she rested in silence for only half an hour before she felt the world falling away from her.

  Once again the infinite expanse of the void yawned around her. The Moonshae Islands sank to insignificance, and the words of the New Gods sang in her ears.

  This time the songs of these gods called the princess to action. As Deirdre listened, she began to understand. She came to know that she was uniquely positioned to carry this word, this fresh doctrine, across the lands of her people. She was a High Princess of Moonshae, after all, and one of no little knowledge and power. The absorption of the mirror, she knew, was not a crippling thing-instead, it was a birth of power and might undreamed of in what she had come to remember as her mortal existence.

  Yet at the same time she knew that she would meet tough, entrenched resistance. Much of that friction would come from the most potent enemy Deirdre had-the only one, in effect, who might be able to block her ambitions and desires.

  That one was her mother, Robyn Kendrick-the druid queen of the isles.

  "Go now and become the Wrath of Chaos!" The will of Talos passed through the ether, grasping the princess in a smoky but unbreakable embrace. Vigilant as ever, Helm looked on, pleased with the power he saw there.

  And in the north, where he slumbered in his glacial vale, the demigod Grond Peaksmasher stirred. There was in existence only one key to his icy prison, but now-after all these centuries-he sensed that this key drew near.

  8

  A Princess in Defeat

  "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 an
d 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. C
asting 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.