The queen continued. “Another thing—Newt’s back on Gwynneth, in Myrloch Vale. At least, that’s where he was when I flew out there a couple of days ago. Naturally he disappeared when I got to Cambro, and I was in such a hurry to get home that I didn’t look for him on the way back.”
“That’s … news,” Alicia said guardedly. She couldn’t exactly call it good news. The faerie dragon’s pranks and unpredictable, if well-intentioned, illusions had caused them trouble in the past. “Does he know that we’re coming?”
“I don’t know how much he heard about our plans. In any event, be warned—if the trees start to talk, or the flowers to dance, you might want to look around for our little friend.”
“I will,” Alicia sighed. In truth, she wouldn’t mind Newt’s presence that much. The faerie dragon was ever a bright and cheery soul, and despite his pranks, he had also proven to be a useful ally on more than one occasion.
“Will Hanrald and Brigit remain with the dwarves?” asked Keane.
“As far as I know you’ll meet them with Finellen,” Robyn replied. “And, depending on how Deirdre fares, I’ll try to join you near your destination as well.”
“I’m faring quite well, mother—thank you!” The younger daughter’s voice came from the door of the library. Deirdre entered just then, followed by the looming bulk of the cleric Hyath. “You needn’t post yourself at my bedside!”
Robyn’s face flushed, though Alicia wasn’t sure if it was because of her daughter’s impudent tone or the hovering way the patriarch of Helm accompanied her into this family gathering.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded, curtly confronting the priest.
“I have come to offer my advice … and my services. After all, it seems that the High King has embarked on a quest motivated at least in part from his widening grasp of theological reality. Perhaps one, such as myself, who can offer an outside perspective may have useful counsel to offer.”
“I agree,” said Keane, drawing a surprised look from Robyn. She narrowed her eyes at the magic-user for a moment, and then turned back to the priest.
“Be seated, then,” she invited with bare civility. Deirdre had already taken an empty chair when the cleric lowered his bulky form onto a wide couch.
“Now, then—you’re discussing the muster of your army, perhaps?” inquired the Exalted Inquisitor. As Robyn’s face betrayed her surprise at his timely information, he explained: “Your criers are doing a creditable job of spreading the word. I happened to be in the castle courtyard when the first announcement was made.”
“Yes—the king might ride alone, but I intend to send an army as fast as possible on his trail.”
“I’m surprised that a spiritual woman such as yourself doesn’t put more stock in his chances! After all—Your Majesty—he embarks upon a holy quest!”
“ ‘Holy’ is an altogether subjective term in this matter,” Robyn retorted. “I will not disavow the possible connection, but neither am I willing to allow my husband to ride off to his death based on an error in judgment!”
“A sensible attitude,” allowed the Exalted Inquisitor. “And one which I wholeheartedly support.”
“How?” asked Alicia, frankly skeptical.
“I intend to accompany your army on its march against the giant-kin—that is, given your permission?” he added with a benign smile at the queen.
“I was given to understand that pressing duties called you back to the mainland,” the High Queen noted.
“Indeed, Your Majesty—but I cannot absolve myself of this task, now that it has begun. You may recall it was I who first informed him of the menace on your island.”
Robyn’s jaw tightened. She said nothing.
“I repeat my offer of assistance,” said the patriarch.
Robyn wasn’t at all sure that her lack of permission would prevent the cleric’s involvement in this task. Too, she felt that there was an advantage in having him where Keane and Alicia could keep an eye on his activities. Nevertheless, it galled her to openly allow him to accompany an army of Corwell on business that was rightly a private matter of the kingdom.
“We’ll march pretty fast,” Alicia objected in the meantime. “The troops answering the muster will be young, and fit—and the terrain won’t allow us the luxury of a carriage or wagon.”
The priest smiled, amused by Alicia’s skeptical glance at his large belly. “I wouldn’t worry about that, my princess—these feet have carried me many a mile in the service of my god. No, I won’t have any trouble keeping up.”
“You have my permission to go,” Robyn said suddenly. “With the clear understanding that the High Princess is the leader of the expedition, and you are subject to her commands in all matters.”
“Of course,” murmured the priest, with a polite nod toward Alicia.
The queen picked up a small bell on the table and chimed it firmly. In another moment a soft knock sounded at the door, and she called “Enter.”
The portal opened to reveal a pair of burly men-at-arms, one mustachioed and bow-legged while the other sported a fully bearded face atop a tall, muscular frame.
“You know, I believe, Sergeants-Major Sands and Parsallas,” the queen said as the two men entered and knelt. Alicia and Keane recognized them both as veteran and well-respected members of the garrison.
“Greetings, my queen … and princess, too,” said Sands, the bow-legged officer, speaking for his companion as well. “The muster has gone out and we stand ready for your commands.”
Robyn turned back to the princess. “These two men are loyal in all respects, solid veterans and wise soldiers. I suggest you give their advice some heed during the march.” She turned back to the gruff-looking officers. “The Princess Alicia will command the expedition,” she concluded.
“Very good, Your Majesty,” said Parsallas, winking at Alicia. She remembered him as a good-humored and avuncular warrior, and the presence of the two veterans she found strongly heartening.
“Now,” announced the High Queen, rising and speaking with a tone of finality that clearly ended the meeting. “You’d best start making your preparations. I expect you’ll want to march with tomorrow’s dawn.”
* * * * *
The Princess of Moonshae encountered the storm on the fourth day out from Corwell, as she sailed steadily northward into the Sea of Moonshae. The hulking mass of Oman’s Isle, gathered around the crowning summit of the Icepeak, had lain off the starboard horizon for more than a day. To port, though invisible in the distance, lay the northman-populated isle of Norland.
Prior to the gale the weather had been, if anything, exceptionally mild, with sporadic and unpredictable winds that kept the longship tacking for long hours with little forward progress. They had come through the Strait of the Leviathan in short order, but now that the sea had opened they couldn’t seem to get a helpful wind. If it hadn’t been for Tavish, who had amused the captain and crew with a wide assortment of musical tales, Brandon felt they might have all gone mad from boredom.
The Prince of Gnarhelm had begun to chafe at the delay, longing to see the great lodges of his home and to share the fellowship of his father’s great hall. Too, the memory of the green-eyed princess he had left behind caused him constant agitation. Every little delay seemed, to Brandon Olafsson, a matter of damning frustration.
Then came the summer storm, boiling upward in the late afternoon, forming looming black thunderheads, dark and ominous even as the slanting rays of the sun outlined them in detailed relief. Within fifteen minutes the air whipped itself into a fury, howling down at them from the north with sudden rage and irresistible force. Winds lashed the formerly placid sea into a frothing maelstrom of angry, white-capped swells. Spray stung the young captain’s eyes, blinding his crewmen too as the veteran sailors crouched in the hull. With the sail trimmed to a small square of canvas, Brandon squinted to the east.
He knew that the rocky shore of Oman’s Isle lay somewhere in the murk, but he didn’t know how c
lose—so quickly had the waves and wind enclosed and blinded them. Yet he well remembered that this stretch of coast had few sheltered bays, and many long expanses of fang-toothed boulders and precipitous granite cliffs. They would find only disaster if they drew too close to the island.
“We’ve got to turn and run with the wind!” bellowed Knaff the Elder, Brandon’s veteran helmsman. Now he clenched the tiller in his muscular hands as spray lashed his long gray hair back from his head, plastering his beard to his broad chest. He grinned in savage delight at nature’s wrath, yet he was too good a sailor to want to risk the ship and crew in such an unequal contest.
Brandon’s eyes swung to the north, bitterly reflecting the slow pace of their advance. An hour or two of running before this storm would cost them more than a day’s worth of progress. He saw the stocky figure of Tavish, crouched behind the figurehead and staring at the spuming sea. If the bard hadn’t been forced to take cover, the gods curse him if Brandon Olafsson would do so!
“Ride her out!” he commanded, squinting into the wind as if to prove that the gale was no match for a northman’s determination.
Waves climbed before them, looming like mountains on the horizon, then crashing along the sleek hull. Skillfully Knaff steered between the crests wherever possible, and when the longship had to take a wave full upon her prow he guided her with stoic courage straight into the foaming teeth of the breakers.
The Princess of Moonshae wallowed up a steeply sloping wave, barely cresting the summit before a chaotic swirl of spray thundered around them, over the gunwales and washing down the length of the hull. Northman sailors, already bailing frantically, redoubled their efforts. Many cast wary eyes at their prince, wondering whether their captain’s grim determination to proceed would prove the death of them all.
But even Brandon eventually had to face the inevitable. The wind drove at them too hard, the waves loomed too high, for the ship to maintain the steady northward course. Cursing silently against the gods that thwarted him, he shook his head in fury.
“All right!” he assented grimly. “Bring her around as soon as you can!”
A series of rolling crests tumbled past them and Knaff held the Princess steady through the succession of powerful blows. Then, spotting a momentary lull, he heeled hard on the rudder, bringing the sleek longship through a slashing turn on the inside of a rolling trough of seawater. The vessel lurched sickeningly on her beam, but then a quick adjustment by Knaff righted her atop a breaking crest.
Meanwhile, Tavish had backed away from the prow and settled herself on one of the rowing benches, keeping a secure grasp around a nearby thwart. The seas must have gotten too rough for her, the captain mused, deriving some satisfaction from the fact. He realized, then, that his rash course had been a foolish mistake, brought on by his own desire to confront the feelings that stormed within him. Just as well we turned, Brandon grunted to himself—imagine risking the lives of his crew, the survival of his ship, out of the brooding and longing for a Ffolkwoman!
But now the ship rode with the storm, not against it, and the waves rolled away from beneath the sturdy hull. Sliding forward with dizzying speed, the ship raced southward, propelled by the wind and the storm and careening across the choppy surface.
Full dark settled around them, and the storm’s fury lasted for several more hours—hours during which the Princess of Moonshae raced with the wind, riding the pitching waves with elegant grace. For a time the strains of Tavish’s harp accompanied them through the night, but finally the bard fell into a deep slumber. The ship raced on, surrounded now only by the sounds of the crashing sea.
Yet, as Brandon had feared, the miles swept by with dizzying speed. Though the storm faded into a stiff blow during the middle of the night, there was no longer any question of turning and challenging the wind—in the inky darkness, that would almost certainly prove to be a suicidal course.
Finally a gray light began to diffuse through the mist. A break in the clouds came with the dawn, and Brandon cursed when he saw the Icepeak, now laying far to the stern as it emerged from a low-hanging blanket of clouds. And still the wind blew from the north, blocking any serious attempt to return to their original course.
“The sea stands against us,” Knaff noted, with a grunted acknowledgement of the prince’s frustration.
“Aye,” Brand muttered bitterly. He knew these isles, and knew that the direct route home was not a good path for this trip.
“Mark a course to the east,” he said after a few moments consideration. “We’ll take her through the Strait of Oman.”
That route, known from many voyages to each of the veteran sailors, offered good shelter from a northerly gale, and although it represented an increase in distance, the overall time of the voyage could be reduced.
“Wise choice,” Knaff announced in hearty acknowledgment.
Since the Princess of Moonshae had already passed the southern terminus of Oman’s Isle, the helmsman immediately veered her to an easterly bearing. Within a few minutes, the swells around them grew noticeably smaller, with tops of steely gray or green rather than the angry whitecaps of the storm.
Only then did the crewmen breathe a collective sigh of relief, knowing they had at last entered the sheltered waters of the Strait of Oman.
* * * * *
In the night, Deirdre grew restless, rising and pacing her rooms like a caged animal. She cast a spell of silence around her, for she knew that her mother slept lightly in the next room. That was part of her tension, she knew. She felt trapped by the overweening presence of the druid queen.
Again she thought of her father, riding alone across Gwynneth against the forces of chaos. She felt like one of those forces, a powerful instrument, perhaps even a weapon, poised and ready for use.
And in the spirit of chaos, she had no idea of which way her weapon—herself—would strike.
* * * * *
“Now, my deadly blade … now you grow finely honed, almost ready to strike….”
Talos chortled, sound gurgling like the seething of a volcanic caldron. The god of chaos and evil saw that his vengeance was near, yet for once, his attention was not directed at the princess who slowly prepared to serve him.
Instead, his delight was fixed upon a darkened forest clearing. There, repeating a ritual he had begun to master, a hulking troll raised a great axe and deliberately sliced off the fingers of his two hands.
7
The Battle of Codscove
Thurgol stood atop the same low hill from which he had first observed the human town and its sheltered bay. Though he stood in plain sight of the town, all the firbolgs of his army were gathered close behind, concealed from view and lolling in the morning shade as they awaited their chieftain’s command.
Below Thurgol, spreading into six broad columns of about two dozen apiece, Baatlrap’s trolls marched steadily toward the village. On his lofty vantage, the giant chieftain was stunned by the multitude of his green-skinned allies. Where had they all come from? They crossed green swaths of crops, leaving great brown trails in the dirt as their clawed feet chewed up the moist dirt and mashed wheat, alfalfa, and corn into mud. The wolfdogs paced eagerly at their heels.
The humans in the village, he saw, reacted predictably to the appearance of the trolls. With no wall to protect them, they gathered into companies and advanced quickly to meet the approaching trolls. The giant-kin saw people scrambling through the streets, racing this way and that. The knights stumbled to their horses and mounted, then stood in a tiny knot on the village green, apparently bickering about what to do next.
Several ranks of archers hastened out of the village, forming a long line between the outlying houses and the approaching trolls.
Good! This was the reaction Thurgol awaited. “Follow me!” he bellowed, immediately dropping below the crest of the hill and gesturing to the waiting band of firbolgs. The giants rose to their feet in a mass, quickly breaking into a lumbering trot as they followed their chieftain down the
gradually descending ridgeline, out of sight of the men in the village.
Within a few minutes, they reached an enclosing fringe of forest. This was part of the broad woods of Winterglen, Thurgol had earlier noticed. In fact, the concealment of the trees extended all the way to the shoreline, ending only a few hundred yards from the western fringe of the village. It was the closest an attacker could come without falling under direct observation by the defenders—and, hence, within range of arrow fire from the deadly longbows of the Ffolk.
According to the plan hammered out by Thurgol and Baatlrap, the trolls would take their time reaching the edge of the village, knowing that the barrage of arrows could do the wiry predators little significant damage. During this time, however, they would draw the full attention of the archers, or so it was hoped.
He pictured the scene in the fields, imagining the methodical advance of the trolls. The steel-headed arrows would fly as thick as rain, in volley after volley. Perhaps the humans would raise a ragged cheer when the trolls seemed to falter, the monsters pausing to pluck the missiles from their skin, snap them in two, and cast them to the ground. More and more arrows would fly, to be pulled out and cast aside as the patient trolls allowed their wounds to heal, though doubtlessly growing increasingly irritable and bloodthirsty in annoyance.
That was the plan, anyway. All Thurgol could hope was that the trolls stuck to their part of it. Huffing from the exertion of his pounding gait, the firbolg pushed his way through the woods with growing urgency, knowing that he had no time for delay. Fronds and ferns tickled his legs, but fortunately there was little dense underbrush to obstruct their passage.
Garisa hobbled beside him. The old shaman, with her woolen banner of the Silverhaft Axe fluttering in the wind, moved with surprising speed. She hissed and cackled encouragement to the other firbolgs, waving the pennant with unflagging enthusiasm. Though she hadn’t been eager to make this attack, she had embraced the assault wholeheartedly once it had been ordered.
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