“Call up the men!” Robyn repeated in tight-lipped urgency. “At least you can gather them to—”
“No!” Tristan barked the word so sharply that the High Queen bit her lip, glowering at the patriarch in barely concealed fury. “That’s too easy!” the king continued. “There must be more to it … something I don’t understand!”
“What are you talking about?” demanded the queen.
“My quest, you called it.” Tristan seemed to be speaking to himself. “And time—that’s important, too. Both of you, I think, have given me the guidance I need.”
“What do you mean?” asked Robyn, concerned with the stubborn set of her husband’s chin.
“There is a way I can face these giants and do honor to the gods, and also a way to reach them in far less time than needed for a column of men.”
“No!” Robyn gasped, sensing his intent.
“Yes!” declared Tristan, rising from his chair and standing like the High King that he was in the center of the room. He drew the sword from its scabbard, and the silvery steel gleamed like a beacon in the room. The righteous gleam of the blade challenged even the brilliance of full daylight.
“I ride at once to face these monsters, and I journey in a fashion that places my success or failure in the hands of the gods!”
“You can’t mean—” the queen persisted, but her husband cut her off with a chop of his hand.
“Indeed I do—for I shall go alone!”
* * * * *
The image of her father’s quest flamed in Deirdre’s eyes as she settled into bed on the night following his departure. Tension had crackled through the library following his announcement, with her mother actually reduced to tears at one point by the king’s single-minded determination. Alicia, too, had created a scene, declaring that she would ride at her father’s side. She had been rudely silenced by the determined king.
Only Deirdre and the inquisitor, it seemed, had watched the scene with dispassion. And then, an hour later, Tristan had ridden through the gates of Caer Corwell on his most powerful war-horse, accompanied only by five of his veteran moorhounds and armed with the gleaming sword.
Now, in the darkness, Deirdre sensed the interest of the gods in the High King’s quest. He served the goddess, in his defiance of those creatures who actively wracked the Balance. And he also served Helm, for he placed his faith in the arms of a warlike god and fought against great odds. Perhaps he served all the New Gods, for though his quest was sanctified by the blessing of the Exalted Inquisitor, that patriarch had blessed the endeavor in the names of a full pantheon of deities.
And certainly, Deirdre sensed in the dim recesses of her mind, he served at least one other god besides the goddess Earthmother and the All-Seeing Eye. She sensed this in the core of herself, in the part of her body that was no longer fully human—that part that had been claimed when the mirror shattered and the shards of glass had pierced her without a wound.
She heard the deep voice of an immortal master, and it was not a thing of menace, for it did not try to command her. Instead, this potent deity listened to her needs, paid heed to the desires that had begun to grow in her mind, and slowly, gradually, began to show her the way.
* * * * *
Amid the vast halls of the gods, Talos and Helm observed the consultation in the Moonshaes with particular interest. The two mighty gods, diametrically opposed in almost all facets of value and belief, nevertheless agreed that the reign of the goddess must not be allowed to hold all other faiths aside. Each had his own tool, and each worked toward that aim.
Unknown to them, however, a third immortal power began to stir, to take an interest in the affairs of the Moonshaes. That one was not one of the greatest gods; indeed he was not a true god at all, but a demigod who had once stalked the mortal world of the Realms. Still, he did not lack for worshipers. Once the potent master of a powerful race, he now saw the chance to return to his once mighty glory.
This immortal lord was Grond Peaksmasher, and his children were the giant-kin.
6
A Storm from the North
It seemed to Tristan Kendrick that layer after layer of his life—extraneous, civilized levels—fell away as he rode steadily northward. The complexities of gods and humans grew distant and remote as Caer Corwell dwindled to a speck on the horizon and finally disappeared in the haze of distance.
The comfortable weight of his chain mail armor, a long-past gift from his father, settled upon his shoulders. The sword given to him by Parell Hyath swung easily at his side, and the king reflected that the blade’s weight felt good. It had been long since he had wielded a sword, and that sword had been a blade for the ages—the Sword of Cymrych Hugh. Yet now, so long after that weapon had vanished in the final triumph over the Darkwalker, it somehow seemed right that he again carry worthy steel.
Five powerful moorhounds, led by the redoubtable Ranthal, coursed proudly through the brush and hillocks. The lanky hound, covered with shaggy rust-colored fur and gifted with a keen nose and virtually limitless endurance, was a descendent of the mighty Canthus himself. Loping tirelessly, the pack leader sniffed and searched through the brush, eager to lead his packmates onto the spoor of any prey.
A high-backed saddle supported the king as the huge stallion, Shallot, easily crested the rises. With his gleaming palomino coat and snowy white mane and fetlocks, Shallot trotted and cantered with head held high, as if he knew that he bore the High King of the Ffolk on his back. As the monarch rode, the moors gradually merged into the highlands, the slopes becoming steeper, the crests more rocky and precipitous.
Even the skies blessed Tristan’s endeavor, for the sun shone brightly the whole day long at the beginning of his ride. He rode generally along the line of the northern coast of Corwell Firth, but far enough inland that he avoided the settlements of fisherffolk lining the shore. It was enough that he had the company of his dogs and his horse; indeed, it gave him a sense of freedom and youth such as he hadn’t known in many years.
Before sunset, he turned inland, intending to widely skirt the only significant town, Elyssyrr, along this coast. His course would take him northward into a rugged range of mountains, yet he relished the challenge of untraveled valleys and undiscovered passes. He still felt the pressure of time; he had to travel quickly! It was possible, even likely, that his path would take him into a box canyon instead of a pass, and he could lose a day’s or more travel time with a long backtrack and detour. Yet, as with the entire concept of his solitary quest, he felt no lack of confidence. He rode in the service of the gods; therefore they would find him a path through the mountains.
Of course, even a moment’s reflection told him that he couldn’t expect to set his lance and charge into two hundred firbolgs and trolls. Yet here a serene faith took over in his mind, banishing any concern on this score. It was as if the gods around him urged him on, assuring him that they would take care of the rest.
The first night he made a comfortable camp atop a low mountaintop, relishing the brilliant arc of stars overhead. Already he was so remote from humanity that he saw no sign of fire or lamplight throughout the circumference of his horizon. In fact, he elected to eat a cold supper of bread, sausage, cheese, and wine rather than build himself a blaze that would have detracted from the brilliance of the night.
Snugly wrapped in his bedroll, he watched the stars until he drifted off to sleep. For a long time, he dreamed about many things, but most vividly he remembered floating on a dark, rolling sea, supported by a wide raft, yet alone upon a featureless expanse of water. Then he awakened, still hours before dawn, and thought that he beheld a miracle.
The sky to the north was aglow with spiraling lines and twisting columns of fire dancing on the surface of the world. They reached toward the stars, those flames, and flickered through cosmic colors—red and yellow, deep blue and pure, flaring white. For an hour, Tristan watched the lights of the north, and in them, he saw the blessings of the gods. Did they not illuminate the sky
over his destination?
As if to confirm the magic of the scene, a chorus of wild voices arose from the forest, a song of joy wailing at the stars. It had been many years since Tristan had heard the call of the wolves, and a smile of contentment crossed his lips as he lay, powerfully moved, and listened to their song.
Considerably heartened, the High King drifted back to sleep. This time he dreamed that his ship was propelled by wide sails, fairly flying across the sea on a true and proper course. When he next awakened, it was dawn.
* * * * *
The village of Codscove huddled against the shore, protected by two outreaching peninsulas that served to wrap the bay and community in sheltering arms. Thurgol and Baatlrap watched the town from the vantage of a high hill only a mile or so inland. Not a large town by any means, Codscove was nonetheless the most populous location in the path of the steadily marching army of trolls and firbolgs.
“Good—no wall around it,” observed the huge troll, studying the layout of buildings, streets, and waterfront.
Most of the buildings were small and made primarily of wood, with perhaps one or two walls of stone. In the center of the town, however, were several large stone structures—a small temple, some kind of warehouse or armory, and a sprawling house that must belong to the local lord. These three stood around three sides of a large square of grass, with the fourth side facing the water.
Several companies of men-at-arms, including twoscore armed with longbows, stood at ease in the village commons. Thurgol counted perhaps a dozen horses, with the telltale gleam of plate mail armor reflecting from the knights lounging nearby.
“I don’t think they know we’re so close,” observed the giant-kin. Beside him a great wolfdog, its ears raised suspiciously at the settlement of hated humans, growled ominously.
“They’ll find us soon enough,” replied the brutal troll.
“There’s a lot of people there,” Thurgol pointed out, uncomfortable with the dispassionate nature of his companion’s planning.
In fact, the firbolg chieftain realized, much of the march through Winterglen had turned into an orgy of destruction, with trolls ransacking and murdering wherever humans had been encountered. They had reached more and more of the farmsteads, increasingly less isolated from each other, as they neared the coast. On the last two days, however, every settlement they found had been abandoned, with all the human refugees apparently gathering in the little fishing hamlet before them. Even the wolfdogs had found slim pickings amid the deserted farms, though in several places, the great canines had run down cows or horses enough to feed the entire horde.
“Lots of people good—make nice booty for us,” Baatlrap grunted, smacking his thin, bony lips.
Thurgol shook his head. “We cross water here. Why waste time with big attack?”
The giant troll regarded the firbolg chieftain with his deep, emotionless black eyes. Baatlrap raised a gnarled fist clenched into a ball of knotty green-covered bone. “We have to take boats!” He pointed at the small fleet of fishing craft bobbing in the shelter of Codsbay. “To do that—take town first.”
The firbolg warrior was forced to admit that his hulking companion had a point, though it galled him to grant anything to the monster he came increasingly to regard as a dangerous rival.
“Let’s go make plan,” Baatlrap grunted, turning his back on the town and starting down the hill toward the blanket of forest that flowed halfway up the gradual slope. There waited the ragged army of trolls and firbolgs that had followed these two leaders from Myrloch Vale to the northern shore of Gwynneth.
“Attack tomorrow. I tell trolls,” barked Baatlrap.
The two types of creatures maintained separate camps, with the trolls gathered closer to the fringe of the forest. They passed through a muddy clearing where the gaunt, wiry beasts flopped in relaxation after a day of marching. Baatlrap stopped here among his minions, while the giant chieftain continued toward the camp of his firbolgs. As he passed, Thurgol noted with surprise that there seemed to be a lot of trolls—more than he had remembered from the previous day. Then, as he reentered the forest to find the camp of the firbolgs, he met still another band of trolls—a dozen or more—coming to join the group in the meadow.
Finally he saw, hanging listlessly from the branch of a dead tree, the woolen banner created by Garisa. The rectangular flag bore a crude replication of the Silverhaft Axe, a white image sewn on a dark green background. The old shaman had proudly produced it during the course of the march, and now she insisted that the firbolgs fly it as a banner of war wherever the trail of the campaign led. Thurgol took little note of the flag as his brain worked over the implications of the large number of trolls assembled in the adjacent camp.
True, the numbers of the giant-kin had grown somewhat as well. Several bands of firbolgs, totalling nearly a score of new arrivals, had emerged from the wilderness to accompany Thurgol’s ragged tribe. He had never suspected that this many giant-kin still dwelled in the fringes of the great valley, but word of this epic march had spread to even these remote reaches. As a rule, these smaller bands had suffered even worse luck on the hunt than had the Blackleaf clan.
Word of the Silverhaft Axe had crystallized within these firbolgs an urgency that had drawn them from fifty miles away, flocking to Garisa’s rude banner. Thurgol hadn’t done a detailed count of his troops. Since their number clearly exceeded the combined total of his fingers and toes, an accurate numbering was more or less out of the question. Nevertheless, he had begun to suspect that the army now included nearly as many trolls as firbolgs.
Of course, on the good side, this meant that they had a fairly respectable force. They might just succeed at taking Codscove, though Thurgol realized without enthusiasm that it was likely to be a bloody affair. And ever since the first massacre of the small steading in the forest, the firbolg had felt the control of this army, of its march and perhaps even the purpose of the grand quest, slipping away.
While he pondered, a great cheer rumbled upward from the camp through the woods. Obviously Baatlrap had just told his troops of the impending attack.
Sighing heavily—the cheering depressed him—the firbolg chieftain shouted to get the attention of his own troops. The shambling giants gathered into a great circle, and Thurgol began to speak.
He very much did not feel like cheering.
* * * * *
Robyn spoke with Alicia and Keane in the library less than an hour after the king’s departure. Even through the woman’s druidic veneer of tranquility, her daughter could tell that the High Queen was furious. Her face was white, and the muscles in her neck clenched spasmodically, as if she struggled to bite back words of rage.
“How could he do something so stupid?” Alicia demanded, bound by no such sense of restraint as her mother. “Does he intend to fight a hundred firbolgs alone?”
Robyn sighed. It seemed that her daughter’s fury gave her the vent she needed to relax, at least slightly. “It’s not stupid,” she chided Alicia gently. “Never dismiss actions that are motivated by faith as mere lack of intelligence—and remember as well, your father is not a stupid man!”
“I know!” Alicia declared in exasperation. “But at least he could have let me go along with him—or Keane, or somebody!”
“It may as well have been an army then,” Robyn replied with maddening calm. “For reasons understood only by him, he had to do this alone.”
“But do we have to let him?”
“Yes … and perhaps no,” Robyn replied. At Alicia’s look of frustration, she continued: “I have to respect his wish to travel without an army. Much as I would like to fly above him, watching, perhaps assisting him from a distance, I cannot. It would be too much of a betrayal.”
“What can we do, then?” demanded Alicia.
“I’m getting to that,” Robyn responded, with a calm in her voice that seemed, at least slightly, to settle her daughter’s agitation. “First we will raise an army. In fact, I’ve ordered Earl Randolph
to start the criers through Corwell Town and onto the nearby cantrevs. The full companies are to assemble below the castle by tonight.”
“Will you lead them?” asked the princess.
“As long as Deirdre remains in need of care, I’ll have to remain here. So no, I won’t lead them. That duty, my daughter, will have to fall to you … and to Keane.”
For a moment, Alicia was speechless. Never had she commanded, or even given thought to commanding, troops in the field. Yet as the idea took hold, she felt growing confidence gained from recent experiences, and she found that the notion seemed quite natural. Too, it would be a comfort to have Keane’s intelligence to rely on. The fact that he would be there with her gave her a bright flare of confidence.
“Do you want us to follow the king?” asked Keane.
“Not in so many words. That would be impossible, anyway, given how quickly I expect him to travel. But if you march northward with all speed, it may be that you can reach Winterglen before all is lost.”
“Mother … the route of our march … it will take us through the heart of Myrloch Vale.”
Robyn bit back her emotions again. The others could see that this fact troubled her deeply. Yet here she saw no alternative. “Any other route would take at least twice as long,” she admitted. “And we don’t have enough seaworthy ships in the harbor to transport a large number of men by sea. It breaks my heart to send armed men through the heart of the Earthmother’s domain, but if this mission has any hope of success, it lies in a speedy march to the north. I’ll try to give you a map of the easiest route—and the one least likely to leave permanent scars on the wilderness.”
Robyn paused, thinking, before she continued. “You’ll have to carry provisions with you. Take no game in Myrloch Vale itself. Do you understand?”
Alicia nodded. The command was no more than what she had already planned.
“Also, we know that you’ll face trolls. Be sure to carry a good supply of oil.”
Again the princess agreed. She knew that fire was the only way to permanently destroy the regenerating monsters, and the flammable liquid was the best way to incinerate the green-skinned corpses.
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