The Druid Queen

by Douglas Niles

  “Here!” Robyn said, still laughing. She reached into her pouch and pulled out a block of the cheese. “But first I have to see you!”

  Immediately a soft light diffused Robyn’s bower, coming from no place in particular. In another instant, a small, lizard-like creature popped into sight, hovering in the air before the druid queen.

  The first thing Robyn saw about Newt, as always, was that wide, toothy grin that always seemed to extend farther to the sides than the width of his head. The faerie dragon was bright pink in color, reflecting his happiness at meeting his old friend, his hummingbird wings buzzing audibly now as he slowly settled to the ground.

  No more than three feet in length, and nearly half of that was tail, Newt’s body was nevertheless a reasonable approximation, in miniature, of a dragon’s. Tiny scales coated him, except for his gossamer wings, and his face—perhaps in part because of its size—consistently bore a far more cheerful expression than one typically associated with the greater wyrms.

  Now, resting on his haunches so that he could hold the cheese with both his forepaws, Newt busily stuffed the food into his mouth. Soon his cheeks bulged outward, and then he paused to chew contentedly. Robyn, relaxing again, let her old friend enjoy his repast. She had many questions for him, but she knew better than to press Newt for information.

  Finally he finished, swallowing the better part of a full day’s ration in one throat-stretching gulp. “So,” he said, curling up in her lap, “what brings you back to the Vale?”

  “Curiosity,” Robyn replied evasively. The worst way to approach the faerie dragon, she knew, was with direct questioning. “After all, it’s been a long time since I’ve been here.”

  “Me, too,” Newt agreed. “I was over on Alaron for a little while.”

  A little while! Robyn smiled privately. The dragon had performed a duty there for twenty years! “Alicia told me. She said you were a great help to her and her companions.”

  “Say, I was, wasn’t I?” Newt raised his head and puffed out his chest a measure. “I bet they’d still be wandering around the highlands over there if it weren’t for me!”

  “How long have you been back?” Robyn inquired casually.

  “Oh, two or three days now—or is it two or three months? I always get those two mixed up. I got here before the firbolgs went over and smashed Cambro. Does that help? … What’s the matter?”

  Robyn had stiffened reflexively, stunned by the dragon’s casual announcement. Cambro was the only dwarven community in Myrloch Vale. The queen had been there several times, albeit many years past. For centuries, the sturdy community had stood, a bulwark against the firbolgs that used to roam so aggressively through the highlands. Now, when the giant-kin had been all but obliterated, what force could propel them into such an attack?

  “Anyway,” Newt continued, “I came down to the lake here. I was doing some fishing along the shore when I saw you this afternoon. I chased you all the way to the woods, but then I lost you. Good thing you brought that cheese, or I wouldn’t have found you. Say, you wouldn’t have another little nibble in there, would you?” Newt’s twitching nostrils revealed that he already knew the answer to the question.

  Carefully Robyn broke a smaller piece off the block, asking as she passed it, “About Cambro—how badly was Cambro smashed? I didn’t really hear much about it.”

  Newt shrugged. “Oh, you know—firbolgs and trolls dancing around a bonfire. They were waving a big silver axe around in the air and making a lot of noise. I couldn’t even get to sleep until I flew a couple miles away!” he concluded indignantly.

  “Firbolgs … and trolls. Are you sure, Newt?” Robyn asked intently.

  “What do you think … I don’t know a troll when I see one? Sure I’m sure!”

  “What about the dwarves? Did you see any of them?” pressed the queen.

  Newt shook his head in exasperation. “I told you—I saw firbolgs and trolls! You don’t think the dwarves would invite them right in, do you?”

  Robyn sighed and leaned back on her arms, frustrated and tense. She knew better than to ask Newt how many of the beasts he had seen. Suddenly she itched with the urge to fly north, to see Cambro and this brutal band of monsters. She didn’t want to think of it as an army—there couldn’t be that many of the gigantic humanoids on all Gwynneth … or could there?

  “I’m going to Cambro today,” she announced. “Want to come along?”

  “Sure!” Newt beamed. “But why? Didn’t I tell you it’s full of giants and stuff? Why don’t we go to Corwell, or someplace else that’s friendly?”

  By the time she had convinced the faerie dragon that she was determined in her choice of destination, a bare minimum of light sifted through the woods, and the stars overhead slowly disappeared into the dawn. Once again Robyn’s body smoothly changed shape, and the figure of the white hawk soared into the still morning air. Buzzing beside her came the equally swift faerie dragon.

  For a few hours, they flew, guided by Robyn’s true sense of direction. Finally they saw the small clearing in its setting of low, rock-knobbed hills. As they swooped downward, she was relieved to see that most of the houses had suffered relatively little damage, though a few had been burned and others smashed into junk. The evidence of battle was all too indisputable.

  Diving lower, she saw that the monsters had gone. Their tracks formed a plain, muddy rut extending northward from the village. Other figures, however, stood among the ruins, and as the hawk soared toward the ground, Robyn identified many of them. A number of dwarves regarded the great bird suspiciously, but none of them raised their crossbows—and in another moment, Robyn settled to the ground, standing proudly as the dark-haired druid queen. She wasn’t surprised when Newt didn’t appear, suspecting that he hovered around somewhere, invisibly observing this large gathering of strangers.

  “Your Majesty!” Hanrald exclaimed, quickly dropping to one knee as she greeted him and bade him rise. Danrak, too, formally greeted the mistress of his druidic faith.

  “And Brigit … and Finellen as well,” Robyn said with a sad smile at the destruction around them. “How unfortunate that we old companions meet like this.”

  “It’s a regular ‘old campaigners’ council,” Finellen grumbled. “But we’re too late.”

  “You weren’t here when this happened? No wonder they got away with it,” Robyn said, clapping the bearded dwarfwoman on the shoulder.

  Gruffly, biting back her frustration, Finellen told Robyn what she had learned from Danrak and the physical evidence of the scene: the approximate number of the attackers—a remarkably accurate estimate of two hundred—and the fact that the brutes had marched off to the north. Missing from Cambro were considerable stockpiles of strong drink, as well as much treasure and the Silverhaft Axe, the prize artifact of the village.

  Danrak added the information about the dwarven refugees. “We also received word just this morning that they’ve attacked some farmsteads in Winterglen. They’re still marching north, toward the coast.”

  “We’re going after them within the day,” Finellen noted. “We’ve sent out a mustering of the clans, and I hope to add a few more warriors before we start out on the trail. But after that, it won’t be more than a few days before we track these thugs down and attack!”

  Robyn looked around. At best, Finellen had some fifty warriors in her company. Even if that number doubled, which didn’t seem likely, they would be vastly outnumbered by the giant-kin.

  “I can return to Corwell by tomorrow,” she said, calculating distances and effort in her mind. “When King Tristan hears about this, he’ll take immediate action—you know that! Why don’t you consider holding back until he can join you? He can raise five hundred men-at-arms from Corwell Town alone. They’ll be on the march within a few hours of the call. Then, with your forces united, you can make one solid, sure attack!”

  Her arguments sounded persuasive and sensible to the humans and the elf, but Robyn could tell that Finellen didn’t see th
em quite that way.

  “Was Corwell sacked?” demanded the bearded warrior. This was the question that defined the dwarf’s approach to the problem. “Since when do you think that we dwarves can’t take care of ourselves?”

  “That’s not the case! What about the lessons we learned together twenty years ago, Finellen? Standing side by side against chaos—dwarves, Llewyrr, and humans—we faced down evil and we prevailed! Have you forgotten?” demanded the queen.

  “No … I’ll never forget,” Finellen said sincerely. “But there’s a case where the Darkwalker and its minions threatened all of us!”

  “Didn’t you hear Danrak say that human farmsteads have been ravaged by these beasts? Those are King Tristan’s subjects. He would come out of duty to them even if Cambro still stood safe and snug! You’ll not relinquish any sense of honor by waiting for him. Instead, you’ll ensure that you earn the vengeance you so richly deserve!” And take away from the chance you’ll lead your warriors into another tragedy, she added silently.

  Finellen turned away to ponder for a moment. Finally she made her decision and faced the queen again, her expression skeptical but not unfriendly.

  “I’ll have to follow the trail … keep them in sight,” she explained. “But I suppose I could hold off on the attack for a week or so, at least so long as it doesn’t look like they’re getting away.”

  How the giant-kin could “get away” on an island the size of Gwynneth eluded Robyn at the moment, but she was grateful for the dwarfwoman’s concession.

  “Very well,” Robyn replied. “I’ll start back to Corwell immediately. The king will be on the march shortly after I arrive, I’m certain!”

  “A week,” Finellen said grudgingly. “After that, I don’t think I’ll be able to hold back.”

  * * * * *

  “Come in, my child.… It’s good to see you walking about.” It’s good to see you period, the Exalted Inquisitor addended silently as Deirdre entered the anteroom of his apartments.

  Indeed, the raven-haired princess of Callidyrr was a stunning beauty, with her ice-white skin, high cheekbones, and lush black hair. Her blue eyes, of a hue so dark it sometimes seemed like black, burned with an intensity that dissolved any thoughts of chilly arrogance within her proud, aloof body.

  “I’m beginning to feel … alive again,” Deirdre admitted, sinking to a low bench with a sigh. Even a short walk about the keep still exhausted her. Nevertheless, this was a considerable improvement from her nearly comatose state of a week earlier.

  She had awakened several days before to find the patriarch of Helm at her side, holding her small hand in both of his large ones. Immediately she had felt a sense of trust toward the man, and as they had conversed—for a few minutes at first; later for hour after stimulating hour—she learned that here was a person who understood her!

  This made him unique among her currently present family and friends. Deirdre found that the priest was a very devout man, absolutely subject to the will of his god, but the will of his god as Hyath himself interpreted it. The princess had been quick to grasp the fact that this gave him a certain amount of leeway in the pursuit of his doctrine.

  And yet Helm did not seem displeased. She sensed an aura of godhood around the man, an indisputable fullness of power that bespoke more than mortal, or even magical, vitality. It was a strength unique from, and seemingly superior to, the druidic faith of her mother.

  When Hyath spoke to her, his deep voice rumbled soothingly. He talked, not of his god, but of gods. Once again Deirdre found him clarifying things that she had never fully grasped before. The full pantheon of gods worshiped by all the peoples of the Realms she saw as a good thing, a strengthening by diversity that for many centuries had been unknown in the Moonshaes.

  It was an outlook that differed fundamentally from her mother’s interpretation of immortal will, as personified by the goddess Earthmother. Deirdre had heard often enough the central tenet of her mother’s faith: According to Robyn, the Moonshaes were uniquely enchanted because of the purity of their goddess. If other deities—the druids called them “New Gods,” though Deirdre knew this was a preposterous misstatement—exercised equal power in the isles, then the goddess must inevitably fade.

  But for the first time, Deirdre examined this situation in a somewhat dispassionate light. What was such an inherently terrible thing about the acceptance of the New Gods? Hadn’t Hyath already shown her how competition for worshipers bred strength, not weakness?

  “Did you sleep without dreams last night?” inquired the patriarch.

  “I don’t know,” Deirdre replied with a bemused shake of her head. “I certainly felt well rested in the morning, and Father tells me he didn’t hear anything during the night.”

  “Splendid news,” the cleric said benignly. “Tell me, did you have a chance to think about our conversation of last night?”

  “Yes, I did. It’s true that there’s a lot of good land in Myrloch Vale, as you pointed out. Yet for some reason none of the Ffolk have ever farmed there.”

  “Superstitions perhaps?” supplied the Exalted Inquisitor.

  “Yes—ancient fears of the goddess. It’s as I told you. Many of the Ffolk don’t realize that there are other gods who will watch and protect them.”

  “The spreading of this message is a great, even an historical, task—one that must be undertaken without any further delay.”

  For a long time, Deirdre kept silent. The implications of the patriarch’s suggestions were not lost upon her. She found them strangely disturbing, but also motivating, in a sense that she couldn’t quite identify.

  “In any event, dear child, I’m delighted to see that your strength returns with such youthful vigor. If only your father would respond as well.…”

  “He seems robust enough,” Deirdre noted.

  “In the flesh, to be sure,” the cleric explained. “But it is the wasting of the spirit wherein lies his danger. By refusing to accept the requirements of Helm, he denies the aid of a very powerful ally, one who could surely heal his wound and raise him to undreamed of greatness!”

  Deirdre shook her head. “My father is a king of the Ffolk, and he holds the goddess in nearly the same reverence as does my mother. It’s a thrall that I admit I can’t understand. After all, he’s shown a willingness to accept many other new concepts during his rule. Yet—for now at least—if Helm requires him to reject the worship of the Earthmother, I don’t believe he will do so.”

  “ ‘Reject’—such a strong word,” the Exalted Inquisitor soothed. “There only need be an implicit acknowledgment of the rights and places of other gods—an equal standing with the Earthmother, no more.”

  Deirdre sighed. It sounded so simple, so right when the patriarch explained things. Yet she knew that in her own life, the situation was a great deal more confused. She sensed an expanse of power and potential that dwarfed anything she had previously known, and she was reluctant, even unwilling, to abandon the spark that had been ignited.

  A cry from the castle guards roused her from her meditation. At first she thought that an alarm had been sounded, but as she threw open the windows, she heard the joy and relief in the guardsman’s voice.

  “The High Queen returns!” he cried as other guards joined in the welcome. Deirdre saw the familiar form of the white hawk circling the castle, settling quickly toward the ground.

  * * * * *

  “A small army of firbolgs and trolls is on the march. They’ve sacked Cambro, and now they move to the north, toward the shoreline and the Strait of Oman.”

  Robyn spoke bluntly, standing before the hearth of the library while Tristan, her daughters, Keane, and the inquisitor listened to her report.

  “Have they attacked any humans—any Ffolk?” asked Tristan grimly. The High King paced in agitation, his new sword swinging easily at his side and his gold circlet crown resting atop the fullness of his long, gray-brown hair.

  “Yes—isolated villages … little more than groups of farmsteads
. Codscove lies in their line of march, though they must be a few days away from there still.”

  “Thus is the prophecy of Helm fulfilled!” crowed the Exalted Inquisitor. He turned to face Tristan. “Your Majesty! This is the evil indicated by my god. Wipe it from the isles, and you will earn the blessings of his power.”

  “I can do no less, in any event,” said Tristan. “Yet I fail to see how this makes any great service for Helm.”

  “Indeed,” Robyn agreed. “The dwarves already march against this force, and I assured them that your help would be forthcoming. Finellen was reluctant to delay her attack, but I convinced her to give you time to get there with a body of men.”

  “Of course,” Tristan agreed, though he sounded vaguely distracted. “That’s what I must do. However many of the villains there are, I can’t imagine that we’ll have trouble dispatching them.”

  The king turned back to the cleric, an expression of puzzlement on his face. “That’s why I can’t see where this could be the will of your god any more than of my own goddess.”

  “Perhaps there is a thing about your quest that you have not fully grasped … that we have not yet understood.”

  Tristan, his hand on the hilt of his sword, whirled in agitation. He seemed about to say something, but then angrily shut his mouth, half-drawing the sword from its elegant scabbard. Quickly he resheathed the weapon and resumed his furious pacing.

  “We have no time!” Robyn interrupted in irritation. “It will take the better part of a day to muster your men, and who knows how long to march them to Winterglen! Why waste that time arguing which god is served by your duty?”

  “That’s just it!” Tristan said, turning to his wife with real anguish on his face. “I’m confused about that duty. What if I’m missing something … going about this the wrong way?” He raised his left arm, with its all-too-abrupt termination.