The Druid Queen

by Douglas Niles

  Murmurs of astonishment, tinged with awe, rippled from the onlookers. They well remembered the tale, chanted by them all, on the night before they had embarked on this adventure. The presence of that very axe, found in this village, could not fail to stir the warlike pride of each and every one of the giant-kin, and even to a lesser measure the trolls.

  “What does it mean?” inquired Thurgol after a few moments of stunned silence.

  “Does the Ancient One awaken?” asked another giant-kin.

  “It’s a sign!” croaked Garisa, sensing her cue in the firbolg’s question.

  “A sign of what?” demanded Baatlrap suspiciously. The hulking troll’s black eyes bore into the shaman’s skull, but Garisa shrugged away his attention.

  “Who knows?” she said, with an exaggerated glance at the heavens. “The will of the gods is displayed, but it remains to us mortals to determine how that will is understood and acted upon. But know this, my villagemates: The gods are well pleased with the Clan of Blackleaf, for we have righted a great wrong in restoring the axe to its proper owners!”

  “Aye! The gods are pleased!” A chorus of congratulations rose from the shadows around the great fire.

  “They are pleased, but they are not satisfied. This can only mean that our work is not done!” hissed Garisa, fixing them all, one at a time, with the balefully gleaming orb of her wandering eye.

  “Tell us!” demanded a troll, nervously following Garisa’s glance at the sky. “What is the will of the gods?”

  “Tell us!” came the chorus of agreement, a basso rumble of voices, all turning to the ancient shaman for advice and comfort. “What do the gods desire?”

  Garisa made a great show of shuffling about the full periphery of the large fire, examining the floating image of the axe from every angle, cocking her head this way and that to confront the different firbolgs and trolls with her challenging gaze. To an individual, they would not meet her eyes.

  At last she came back to the place where she had started. The image of the huge axe remained poised in the air; once Garisa had established the simple illusion, she hadn’t had to pay attention to it. Instead, the image would remain for some time, unless she chose to adjust it.

  Staring back at it, mumbling unintelligibly, she suddenly did just that. The axe disappeared with shocking suddenness. The firbolgs and trolls erupted in gasps of astonishment or murmurs of superstition and fear.

  “Bring me my bowl!” declared Garisa, her voice shrill. A pair of firbolgs leaped to obey. “Find me coins—they must be gold! Then I will foretell the will of the gods!”

  * * * * *

  Deirdre started upward in her bed, aware of the pounding of her heart, the pulsing of blood and life through her veins—all that and more! She felt a keen sense of awakening power, of growing mastery.

  Her nightly sleep had become a soothing balm for her spirit, such that she could hardly contain her anxiousness during the day. Each darkening eve, it seemed, brought her a new infusion of vitality, energy … and sheer, constantly building might. That, more than anything, slowly convinced her to stir; she had to test, to examine this sense of limitless power!

  Somewhere in the castle, she sensed the presence of another powerful being, one who had summoned his god to serve him. That god, she sensed, had refused. But why? The pressure of the immortal contact tingled in the air around her, tantalizing her even as it refused to answer her question. Yet within that teasing aura, she sensed she would find more than a simple explanation.

  She sat up in her bed, feeling as though she were still in the midst of a dream. Around her was her room, looking as mundane as ever, but now she had a feeling that she could see through those walls, beyond the confining borders of her apartments.

  And what beckoned there was not Caer Corwell. Instead, she sensed that she rested in the midst of a vast cosmos, a place so immensely huge that the entire Realms amounted to little more than specks of dust. On those specks, the tiny, insignificant islands called the Moonshaes were even less than dust.

  Voices called from the spacious void surrounding her, drawing her attention this way and that. She knew them and she was pleased, for these were voices of mighty beings, and they showed her honor and respect. In a flash, she understood, and the knowledge placed her entire existence into perspective.

  She had been selected to hear the gods themselves, and it was an honor that dwarfed all the rest of her life.

  * * * * *

  Ever watchful, Helm took note of the immortal turmoil tearing at the fiber of Gwynneth. He pressed close, his power linked to the life and body of the patriarch, only to find that a strong barrier of power held his full might at bay.

  Over the land, the presence of Talos was a rumbling and ominous cloud, not yet ready to unleash its storm. Below, the fertile loam of the Earthmother flourished, as if in challenge or scorn.

  The Vigilant One realized immediately that the goddess, not the storming god, formed the barrier to his own power, actively resisting the workings of Helm’s might or his agents. The goddess blocked him, while Talos … Talos strived to weaken her.

  In a flash of immortal understanding, Helm sensed the course of destruction acted upon the world. A horde of monsters ravaged the land. Some of them labored in the name of Talos, though even the beasts themselves did not understand.

  And Talos showed his workings freely to Helm. The Vigilant One understood that knowledge of the scourging band could be used to his own advantage—and that such advantage would not be unpleasing to Talos.

  Thus, in mistrust and suspicion, but full awareness of mutual desire, the purposes of Helm and Talos became aligned.

  4

  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 dwarf 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 th
ere, 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.