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.
9
Partings
Princess Alicia actually had a very mistaken impression of Tristan's whereabouts. Despite the fact that he had a full day's head start and traveled mounted and alone, the High King hadn't progressed much more rapidly than had the footmen of Corwell. For one thing, he hadn't known about the pass into the vale that Robyn had sketched for Alicia. Also, his untimely stag hunt had carried him far from his proper path, and he meandered a bit as he tried to find his way back.
Now Tristan's eyes opened with the dawn, but it was several minutes later before he could pull his mind from the depths of slumber. He slept out-of-doors, he saw, with a mighty sword held ready in his hand. But where was he?
Myrloch Vale, he realized, the recollection followed by a flood of confusing facts. Shallot was here, and Ranthal and the moorhounds. He wore his chain mail, and he had come here on some sort
of mission.
But what?
His eyes wandered to the east, toward the bright flare of the sun as it crept above the tree-lined horizon. His mission, he recalled, was a quest of no little importance, yet now it didn't strike him as strange that he couldn't remember the nature of that purpose.
Instead, it was as if the task would only become relevant when he could put his memory in order. He tried to focus on the direction of his journey, but all he could think about was the sunrise, the gleaming dawn that beckoned in the east. Why was his mind so thick? Was something wrong?
Eastward-that must be it, he told himself. True, he felt a vague lack of conviction about that determination, but he could think of no reasonable alternative.
Thus determined, the High King of the Ffolk saddled his great war-horse and called his hounds to the trail. Obediently they loped toward the rising sun, with the proud warrior on his great steed riding grimly behind. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, ready… but for what?
Tristan's mind sharpened until the king felt a keen pulse of mental power tingling through him. For a moment, he drifted again. Why was he here?
"The Darkwalker is abroad," he announced loudly, the words ringing as an alien sound through the pastoral wood of Myrloch Vale. He saw a momentary image of that looming, reptilian form, but it quickly faded into the mists and disappeared.
Did he campaign against the sahuagin? An image of the spine-backed fish creatures filled his mind, rank upon rank of them emerging from the sea to pillage and slay. Did they lurk in the woods, among the trees? Then, in another burst of lucidity, he knew that he wouldn't be seeking his aquatic enemies in an inland valley. No, it must be the Darkwalker.
Somehow, that thought didn't seem right either. He had a clear picture of a young prince pursuing the unnatural horror that stalked the land. Yet for some reason, he felt like a very old king.
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