Although she didn’t realize it, Alicia unconsciously encouraged this admiration. She remained cheerful even when they faced obstacles, such as the unexpectedly deep stream they had encountered that afternoon. The waterway hadn’t been featured on Robyn’s map, yet it had raged through a deep gorge and they had lost many hours looking for a suitable ford. Alicia had raced ahead of the column to find a crossing, then galloped back with a whoop and cheer that put great heart in the weary marchers.
And even though she was mounted, the princess put in as much effort as any footman, riding back and forth along the column of marching men, responding to each loud greeting with a wave or a smile, and then racing ahead to make sure they found and followed the route Robyn had marked for them on the map.
Also, the princess had scorned any privileges of royalty. Like any warrior, she built her own fire and cooked her own meals, though every evening she made the rounds of the camp and was frequently invited to join a small group of men at their own cheery blaze. This she did as much as time allowed, listening to their stories of home and hunt, sharing her own experiences in turn.
Keane had watched admiringly, seeing the way that she earned the men’s loyalty, sensing in this young woman all the qualities of leadership that would one day make her a splendid monarch. Yet he could tell that she herself remained for the most part unaware of these feelings, a fact that was part of what Keane found so appealing in the young princess.
“It’s so hard to tell about them,” Alicia said wearily, leaning forward and allowing a bit of the fire’s warmth to soak into her rough, callused hands. “Sometimes I think they’re coming along out of loyalty to the king, and they’re only following me because I’m going the same way.”
Keane shook his head firmly. “That’s not it, not at all. Your father is an important symbol to them … to all of us. But don’t underestimate your own role. You represent the Ffolk’s hopes for the future. It’s good for them, and for you, that you can get to know each other.”
Alicia smiled, albeit wanly. “Thanks, old friend. I don’t know if I could do this without you here to help.”
“Sure you could,” he assured her. But he was privately glad she didn’t have to, because he didn’t want to be anywhere else.
Keane’s silent addenda must have shown on his face, for the princess reached over and clasped one of his hands in hers. “How about the inquisitor?” she asked. “Did you see him settled in?”
The young wizard chuckled ruefully. “As usual, he’s pitched that palace of his off to the side. Trampled a good-sized meadow to do it.”
Though the patriarch of Helm had accompanied them every step of the way, he remained a distant and mysterious figure. He camped in a manner completely unlike any other member of the expedition. Each night he produced a small square of canvas from his voluminous saddlebags. Casting the object on the ground, he spoke a short incantation, and the thing quickly expanded into the structure the Ffolkmen had immediately dubbed the “palace.” In truth, it was merely a tent, but the structure included several rooms and covered more ground than a typical house. Colorful silk adorned its many panels, and from three sharp peaks—one atop each of the main chambers—flagpoles extended upward. Three identical banners, each portraying the All-Seeing Eye in vivid detail, outlined in a gold border with highlights of silver thread, streamed from these shafts, proudly proclaiming the faith of the tent’s sole inhabitant.
“I’ve told him not to do that!” Alicia objected. “Everyone else sleeps on a small patch of ground. Why does he need a full hectare?”
Keane ignored the obvious reply concerning the huge cleric’s girth and addressed the more pertinent issue. “To him, the whole concept of Myrloch Vale is superstition, or perhaps even blasphemy, and he’s persistent, to say the least, in maintaining his own way of doing things.”
“There’s something more there,” Alicia said quietly. Something in her voice drew Keane’s eyes to hers, and he saw that the princess was actually afraid of Parell Hyath. “It’s not just that he’s of a different faith. It’s as if he thinks of the goddess as an enemy!”
“If he shows any kind of threat,” Keane vowed, “you can be sure that I’ll be there to stop him!”
“I know.” The pressure of her hand increased, and the wizard’s heart swelled with joy. He wanted to wrap her in his arms, to pull her against his chest and shelter her from the world. But this he couldn’t do, nor was such protection, he sensed, what she needed or desired.
For a time, they watched the fire in silence, seeing the dry aspen slowly turn to coal, the pieces falling away from their individual limbs to form a soft bed of embers. The gentle glow within, of deep and iridescent orange, made a pleasant companion to the darkness and to each other.
“How much longer until we’re out of Myrloch Vale?” Alicia wondered.
“We could cross into Winterglen tomorrow,” Keane noted. They followed a course to the west of Codsrun Creek, and five days’ march must certainly have carried them out of the wide valley.
“I wish there’d been some sign of Father.”
Keane shook his head, trying to hide his own concern. “This is a big place. The chance of us crossing his trail anywhere along the way is pretty remote.”
“Then what if he has caught up with this army of firbolgs and trolls? Is that any better?” Alicia demanded.
“There’s always the dwarves,” Keane reminded her. “Finellen’s likely to spot him just as she did with Hanrald and Brigit. And she’s not about to let him charge off on any suicidal attacks.”
“I wish I could believe that. But it seemed so shocking, so sudden. One minute he’s standing there talking to us, and the next he’s astride Shallot, pounding across the moors! If he hasn’t come to his senses, who knows what could have happened to him!”
“That bothers me, too,” Keane admitted. “It was too sudden. Your father’s not a sluggish man, but it’s not like him to do something so drastic without a little more reflection.”
“Greetings, fellow travelers!” The hearty voice emerged from the darkness, followed quickly by the bulky form of Parell Hyath, Exalted Inquisitor of Helm. The silver and golden thread gleamed against the white silk of his voluminous robe. Somehow he kept the garment immaculate, even after five days on horseback, five nights sleeping in his tent.
Keane cursed silently as the princess sat up straight, removing her hand from his.
“Hello,” Alicia replied stiffly. His was an invasive presence, but throughout the march, she had forced herself to treat him with civility. Tonight, however, his arrival might as well have doused ice water over the fire.
“Does our quarry draw near? Are there reports from your scouts?” the patriarch inquired, settling himself on a fallen log a little back from the low fire.
“The men of Llyrath have found the path of the firbolgs,” she replied. “But it’s a cold trail, nearly a week old.”
“Any sign of your father, then?” Hyath’s eyebrows, which nearly met in the middle, came together in a questioning, even concerned, frown.
“No, nothing,” Alicia said bitterly. She turned back to Keane. “We’ve got to pick up the pace! Too much time has passed already, and I don’t want it to be too late by the time we get there!”
“Now, my child … I don’t believe—” the cleric began, but Alicia cut him off with a sharp gesture.
“We don’t know what to believe! That’s why it’s so important to move quickly.” She stopped to think, and both men tactfully remained silent for a few moments.
“Tomorrow we’ll break camp an hour before dawn,” she declared. “The packs are lighter now, with so much of the food gone, so we’ll also add another hour to the evening’s march.”
Alicia’s eyes saddened, and she looked at Keane. “That is, if you think that the men …”
“I said they’d follow you to the Abyss, and I meant it!” he replied.
“I hope you’re right,” she said sadly. For a moment, Keane wondered
if he felt any of the warmth in her voice that had been so full just a few moments before. He might have, or it could have been just a figment of his imagination.
* * * * *
“What about the plan? We win the fight—then we get a boat!” snarled Baatlrap, confronting Thurgol on the dockside of Codscove. The huge troll’s thin lips were drawn back, revealing his jagged fangs, while he held his massive and knobby fists planted firmly on his hips.
The firbolg chieftain and his twelve kinsman had, with great difficulty, pulled the Princess of Moonshae to wharfside. Thurgol clambered out of the rocking ship and bumped into the troll, knocking Baatlrap backward a step.
“The boat came to shore!” barked the firbolg. He was too delighted with his prize to pay more than mild attention to the hulking troll. “We took it!”
The pair stood amid the throng of huge, boisterous humanoids on the waterfront of Codscove. Wounded trolls, as they healed, limped across the trampled commons to join them. The remnants of the human defenders, recognizing their cause as lost, had fled the field several minutes before. For the time being, even the trolls were too tired to pursue.
Nearby the ruins of the shantytown still smoldered, while the gruff, profane sounds of firbolg revelry continued to rock the stone-walled warehouse.
“Humans all fled, the cowards!” gloated the troll. “We trolls routed them!”
“Good fight,” Thurgol agreed easily. He turned to watch his impromptu crew members grappling with ropes and thwarts, trying to secure the ship to the dock. “Stay there. Hold the ropes!” he commanded finally.
“Leave ship here,” Baatlrap said, drawing Thurgol’s suspicious attention. “Whole army go after the humans. Kill all of them!” The troll’s eyes drifted casually over to Garisa, who stood at the waterfront with the Silverhaft Axe at her side. The old hag scowled back, unintimidated.
The firbolg chieftain blinked in surprise, studying the recalcitrant troll. Then he scowled, drawing his heavy brows down over his craggy face in an expression that was very menacing indeed. “We’ve got the ship. Now we sail to Icepeak!” He pointed across the Strait of Oman, currently too hazy for the far shoreline to be seen. Nevertheless, his firm intent was unmistakable.
“No,” declared Baatlrap, stepping closer to the firbolg chieftain. “You follow me now.”
Thurgol glared at his co-commander in growing fury. “You saw the sign of the gods!” he barked. “We have the Silverhaft Axe. Now it’s time to take it to Icepeak!”
Baatlrap looked at the ship, skepticism rank on his grotesque face. “Humans flee that way,” he said, pointing to the east along the shore. “We should give chase now—catch them and kill them!”
The firbolg chieftain showed no fear of his gangly, powerfully muscled rival. Yet as he remembered the size of the ship, he knew he couldn’t squeeze more than his own tribe into the hull. There would be no room for the trolls. And given their utter lack of nautical skill, he suspected that multiple crossings of the surprisingly wide strait would be out of question.
“I take the ship and my warriors,” Thurgol said after a moment’s thought. “You trolls, and any giant-kin what don’t come along, you can chase the humans.”
His suggestion seemed, to the powerful giant, to be a model of diplomacy and compromise. He nodded thoughtfully, considering all the ramifications. It was a good idea!
“No!” barked Baatlrap, surprising Thurgol in his self-congratulatory meditation. Then, with not a second’s warning, the hulking troll attacked.
* * * * *
How long can a back be twisted before a person became permanently crippled? When an arm or leg remained numb for hours on end, did it wither and die? These questions arose from more than idle curiosity in Tavish. By now, after more than an hour under her bench, she considered them crucial to her chances of survival.
Already she felt as though she had passed the point of ever being able to walk again. A rough thwart jabbed the small of her back, and the low-hanging bench pressed her shoulder into the hull, wearing her skin away with each jolt and roll of the ship. And the firbolgs, she quickly noted, jolted and rolled the ship a good deal more than had Brandon and his crew. The only good news was that the water barrels served to screen her from observation by the giants.
When the humanoids scrambled out of the vessel onto the docks of Codscove, she had risked a little movement, stretching her legs beneath the bench and rolling sideways so that the vicious wooden thwart was removed from contact with her backbone. At the same time, her new position allowed her a small crack of daylight, a space between the bench and a water barrel, through which to observe the longship’s captors.
She saw a monstrous troll, easily the largest and ugliest she had ever seen, jabbering angrily with an equally hulking firbolg. The pair stood nose to nose beside the ship, barking guttural sounds at each other. Though she couldn’t understand a word of the conversation, Tavish sensed that the troll grew increasingly agitated.
The creature carried a huge, wicked-looking sword, balancing the weapon easily in the palm of one massive hand. The blade was streaked with blood; he hadn’t bothered to clean it after the battle on the commons. The giant, on the other hand, leaned casually on a huge, knotted limb. To Tavish, the club looked as large as a small tree trunk, but the monster spun it easily to rest it across one of his broad shoulders.
The firbolg’s eyes drifted over the boat, and Tavish flinched, though there was little chance that the creature would see her in the shadowy niche. She was puzzled by something in his eyes. They seemed to stare with longing far into the haze over the strait.
Then, with shocking speed, the troll whipped his sword upward and slashed it toward the unprepared firbolg’s neck. Backed by the force of powerful sinew, the blade whistled through the air while the firbolg, still staring out to sea, remained unaware of the treacherous attack.
A deep voice, shrill with warning and—to Tavish, who couldn’t see the speaker—unmistakably female, screeched an alarm. With amazing speed, the firbolg flipped his club to the opposite shoulder, spinning back to face his attacker while the great sword bit into the wooden weapon with a loud chunk.
Bellowing in fury, the giant-kin twisted his club and almost pulled the blade out of the great troll’s hands. As it was, the obscene monster held on to the hilt with both hands, stumbling across the dock before he wrenched the sword from its wooden trap.
An excited hubbub of voices rose from the encircling humanoids, all of whom backed out of Tavish’s vision to leave the two combatants a wide, unimpeded arena. The bard felt the strong tension in the air and knew something very important was riding on this duel. The firbolg planted his broad feet firmly, hefting the mighty club and warily holding it before him, guarding against another quick attack.
The troll, however, showed no intention of dashing in for another savage onslaught. The green-skinned humanoid held the sword in the same manner as the giant wielded his club, so that the tips of the two weapons nearly touched, each fighter guarding against a rash attack by his foe.
Tavish heard hisses and catcalls rumble from the unseen onlookers, but the firbolg stood firm, allowing the words to roll off his shoulders. The troll, on the other hand, stepped backward and then angrily barked at the surrounding monsters. His sharp commands only seemed to inflame them more. Even without a knowledge of the language, the bard had no difficulty discerning the derisive tone of the hoots and taunts.
Finally the weight of opinion grew too heavy for the monstrous troll. With a curse and a snarl, he sprang toward the firbolg, bashing at the club with his huge, jagged blade in an attempt to sweep the weapon out of the way.
But he may as well have chopped at a broad tree. The firbolg, muscles knotting in his shoulders and arms, held the club firm. Instead, it was the troll who staggered, though the lanky creature quickly regained its balance and scuttled through a wide circle around the giant-kin.
Now the firbolg uttered a bellow, a blast of sound that nearly deafened Tav
ish, and sprang forward with a timber-shaking pounce. The club flew through a dizzying arc, and the troll threw himself headlong onto the dock in order to avoid the savage swing, dropping out of Tavish’s view. The cacophony of the onlookers’ voices rose feverishly while the hulking giant leered in fierce triumph.
The firbolg whirled through a circle, bashing downward with his stout weapon. Tavish heard it crack solidly into the timbers of the dock, not the troll’s wriggling body, and she felt oddly disappointed. Though each of the combatants was a mortal enemy, the ghastly appearance and the total and unadulterated evil nature of the troll made that beast the more hateful foe. Nevertheless, she retained no illusions about her fate if the brutish giant-kin should discover her.
The firbolg kicked, and she heard a squawk of outrage from the green-skinned monster. Then the troll bounced back into view, swinging the gory sword in a wide circle toward the giant’s midriff. As the firbolg moved to block the attack, the troll pulled the weapon back, avoiding the parry before driving the weapon’s sharp point straight toward the firbolg’s chest.
Surprised, the giant tried to recover, twisting desperately away, but not before the keen tip ripped through his skin, slicing a wound deep into his flank. Grunting in pain, the huge creature staggered back, weakly flailing with his club to block any immediate pursuit.
But the troll didn’t hesitate for long. Utilizing the newly-successful thrusting tactic, he drew the sword back, leveling the blade and angling the point straight toward the giant-kin’s heart. The firbolg stumbled awkwardly, almost falling to one knee, and Tavish wondered if the wound in his side was mortal.
So, too, did the troll. Sensing his opponent’s weakness, the horrific monster lunged inward, driving the sword with all the power of his taut muscle and tough, resilient bone. Like an arrow, the tip of the blade darted toward the lurching giant’s unprotected chest.
The Druid Queen Page 18
