The Druid Queen

by Douglas Niles

  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.

  What was the purpose of his grand quest? The sun rose higher, and after a while he even began to doubt the accuracy of his direction. Eastward didn’t seem right, after all.

  “Tristan! Hey, King, wait for me!”

  The voice took him by surprise but brought a welcoming surge of joy to his heart at the same time.

  “Newt!” cried the High King, spinning about as much as possible in the tall saddle. “By the goddess, fellow, it’s good to see you!” The blunt, tiny snout widened in Newt’s unmistakable smile, while his butterfly wings buzzed easily to keep him in a steady hover.

  “Hey, what a great horse! And that dog—why, you’d think Canthus was here!”

  Chattering delightedly, the little faerie dragon buzzed through the air, circling Tristan and shifting through colors of red, orange, and violet.

  “Canthus?” For a moment, the king was puzzled. “He is—” Then he remembered. The great, shaggy moorhound was called Ranthal. Canthus, Ranthal’s grandsire, was long dead.

  But Newt was here. “Come take a rest, my friend,” the king said, raising his gloved hand. Delighted, Newt came to rest on the man’s wrist, allowing himself to be lowered to the pommel of the deep saddle.

  “Are you out here on a hunt?” asked the faerie dragon, propping himself up on his haunches.

  “No, no. I ride because …” Awkwardly, Tristan’s voice trailed off. Suddenly the appalling state of his mind came driving home with vengeful force. “I don’t know why I’m here,” he concluded miserably.

  “I’ll bet it’s the firbolgs again,” Newt said, with a conspiratorial look into the woods on either side. “They sacked Cambro, you kn—Hey, what is it?”

  Tristan bolted upright in his saddle and then shouted aloud in combined relief and outrage. The king seized the tiny dragon around his belly and squeezed the air from Newt’s lungs.

  “Firbolgs! That’s it!” he cried as the full wealth of his memory came flooding back.

  He squinted into the rising sun. “And not east—I should be riding north!”

  Abruptly the grim strength of his delusion became clear. Something worked against him, striving to steal his memory, his very mind! The forest around him suddenly seemed a darker, more menacing place. He quickly yanked Shallot’s reins to the side, starting the great horse onto a northerly course.

  How long had he wandered? He realized, to his further distress, that he had no idea as to the answer.

  “When, Newt?” he pressed. “When did the firbolgs sack Cambro?”

  “Well, before.” The faerie dragon squinted up at the king as Shallot broke into a loping canter. “I mean, before I saw you.… Oh, and I saw Robyn, too!”

  “You did?” Tristan had ridden out of Corwell too quickly to hear the full tale of Robyn’s experiences on her mission of reconnaissance. He bit back a question about the timing of Newt’s encounter with the queen, fearing he had already overloaded the tiny serpent’s recollection. “But Cambro—how many days ago was it that the firbolgs came?”

  “Oh, lots,” Newt said breezily. “But I knew you’d be coming along.”

  The king realized that the faerie dragon was being as specific as he could. Newt wasn’t the one to provide precise details or painstaking answers to questions. Nevertheless, Tristan felt a great lightening of his load from the presence of his old friend.

  “So—we’re going to thump those firbolgs, I bet!” Newt chirped, raising his neck to look forward past Shallot’s streaming mane. Then, in a moment of puzzlement, he squinted and looked to the rear. “Didn’t you bring an army with you?” he asked.

  Another wave of chagrin washed over Tristan. “No,” he admitted. “I came alone.”

  The faerie dragon’s eyes widened in awe. “Wow! This is going to be some battle!”

  Tristan shook his head. The fierce determination that had seized him following Robyn’s report seemed like a strange dementia now. What had he been thinking? For a moment, he considered spinning the horse about, thundering back to Corwell, and mustering his army, but he immediately discarded that course of action as too time-consuming. He must be near the northern fringes of the vale by now, and he couldn’t admit that all this time had been wasted.

  Another reason nagged at him as well—pure, royal pride. It shamed him to think of his irrational behavior, and if he returned to Corwell, he would be forced to admit his realization before all the Ffolk of his kingdom. That wasn’t something he could bring himself to do.

  But why had he made this mistake? That question skirted the realm of his brain but wouldn’t come into focus—at least, not now.

  He tried to imagine the monster that had led the humanoids on their destructive course. A burning, almost mindless hatred seized the king as he pondered this unknown firbolg. What restless arrogance propelled him onto this destructive path? The lord of the marauding band became a focus of his rage, and Tristan forged an iron determination—one day that brute would die on his sword.

  “Where’s Cambro—how far away?” he asked, trying a different tack on the scatterbrained faerie dragon.

  Again Newt looked at him, squinting like a tutor regarding a particularly thick-skulled pupil. “Cambro’s in Myrloch Vale,” he said precisely. “And you’re in Myrloch Vale, too!”

  “I know that!” declared the king, unable to entirely squelch his impatience. “But where in Myrloch Vale—how far from right here?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. It’s over there somewhere.” Newt gestured vaguely, but it was enough for the king. The faerie dragon had pointed to the southeast. Tristan realized that he had indeed traveled almost to the northern fringe of the vale. Perhaps he hadn’t lost as much time as he’d feared.

  “And the firbolgs?” the king pressed. “Do you know where they went from Cambro?”

  “Nope,” Newt replied, with a firm shake of his head. “Though I heard the humans talking about Winterglen.”

  That information, at least, was no less than the High Queen had reported when she returned from Myrloch Vale to the castle. “Which humans?” he asked, to confirm his suspicions.

  “The ones Robyn talked to—the ones with the dwarves! Don’t you pay attention at all?”

  Tristan grimaced. He’d forgotten what a painstaking process it was to gain information from the scatterbrained faerie dragon, but—for now, at least—it proved well worth it.

  “What about wolves—a wolf, anyway? Have you seen him?”

  “I’ve seen lots of wolves!” Newt boasted. “Remember when the Darkwalker came to Corwell, and so did the wolves? Why, there were at least a thousand of them! The whole pack came running out of—”

  “No! I mean wolves here, now!” blurted Tristan.

  Newt looked around, his tiny eyes squinting. “Nope!” he announced, full of certainty. The king decided not to press the issue.

  “We’re riding to Winterglen,” he announced casually. “Though I’d like to camp on Codsrun Creek tonight.”

  “Well, why didn’t you say so?” huffed Newt. “That’s way over there!” he added, pointing to the west. “Say, is that Corwellian cheese I smell?” inquired the little dragon, with a meaningful look at the king’s bulging saddlebags.

  With his position more or less triangulated, the king chuckled with a small measure of relief. Reaching back, he managed to pull a small morsel out of his saddlebag for Newt. “That’ll have to last you until we stop for the night,” he warned, knowing that the cheese would disappear with
in a few moments.

  But Newt settled down to munch happily, and the miles rolled away behind them. The spell of delusion had passed, except for the lingering distress caused by the mysterious origin of his confusion. The king kicked Shallot harder than he intended. The great war-horse bucked once in annoyance and then set off for the north at a breakneck gallop.

  * * * * *

  “Hello, my princess,” Keane said softly, folding his long legs below him and settling to the ground beside the small fire. “Do you have a few minutes for your old tutor?”

  Alicia laughed and nodded. “Sorry, Keane. I know I’ve been busy. Just now I was almost falling asleep in my tea.”

  “You’re setting a good pace. It’s no wonder that you’re as tired as the rest of us,” allowed the lanky magic-user.

  Indeed, Keane’s own legs were cramped and sore, and the ground made an even less comfortable seat than the saddle, which had come to be a fiendish torture device in the mage’s mind. Yet he had carefully avoided complaining, knowing that the weight of her command weighed heavily enough upon Alicia’s shoulders. And he at least had the benefit of a mount. The warriors of Corwell who marched with them traveled on foot.

  “How are the men doing?” Alicia asked, as if reading his mind. “They all seem cheerful enough when I’m around, but I wonder what they really think.”

  “I think they’d follow you to the Abyss if you wanted them to,” Keane replied truthfully. The mage had mingled with the men-at-arms during much of the march northward. He had observed the genuine affection with which they watched and spoke of the young princess who led them.

  They looked up to see the sturdy, bandy-legged form of Sergeant-Major Sands approaching. The grizzled veteran stroked his long mustache until he reached the fire, where he bowed to Alicia and nodded at the magic-user.

  “The men’re all bedded for the night,” he said. “If there’s nothing else you’ll be wanting, I think I’ll turn in myself.”

  “Thanks, Sands. You’ve done more for us than anyone could ask,” the princess replied sincerely. She watched him swagger off, knowing that his gruff exterior concealed a real affection for his royal commander.