The Druid Queen

by Douglas Niles

  * * * * *

  “It is your arrogance!” Deirdre sneered, speaking to her father. “Your blindness to the need for change! That desire, to hold your people back with a primitive religion and a hidebound fear of progress, that is the evil against which I strive!”

  “The evil has been wrought by your own ‘friends,’ ” the king replied, with a meaningful glance at the firbolgs flanking his black-haired daughter.

  “Bah—they are mere tools, fit only to bear the axe to the place of its use. If their actions draw you here as well, so much the better.”

  “But think of your people, your kingdom!”

  “They are not my people—not yet,” Deirdre retorted. “Though they will be soon enough!”

  “You’re crazy!” cried Alicia. “What matter if you kill us? Do you really think—?”

  “You will not necessarily die. All of you who serve the will of the New Gods will be spared,” Deirdre explained, like a tutor trying to get a plain point across to a classful of thick-skulled students. “This is the way of the future, the destiny of the Moonshae Islands.”

  “You would betray the faith of your people, the goddess your mother has served all her life?” Tristan challenged. He struggled to understand, knowing that this was his daughter before him but not finding any part of her that he knew.

  “My mother serves the enemy. My mother is the enemy!” Deirdre snapped. “That’s why the rest of you will remain here as prisoners, significant only as bait to draw the true menace into my presence!”

  The High King studied the crystal-bladed axe, with its gleaming haft of pure silver. The weapon must weigh a tremendous amount, yet Deirdre had twirled it around as if it were a toy. That artifact! Surely it must in some way be responsible for his daughter’s unnatural behavoir.

  Then the king stiffened reflexively as he saw something moving behind Deirdre. Tavish! His heart pounded as he saw the bard break from the cover of her tree. The stout harpist’s legs pumped steadily as she dashed toward the princess. At the same time, Deirdre’s attention, and that of the firbolgs as well, remained fixed upon their captives.

  He heard Alicia’s intake of breath, knowing that she had seen the bard’s desperate venture as well. Desperately he prayed that none of them would betray that knowledge before Tavish could wrest the axe from the princess.

  “Bantarius—Helmsmite!”

  The voice sent a tingle of alarm through Tristan’s mind. Where did it come from? Who had spoken? The words, the tone, were both maddeningly familiar.

  A glowing form instantly materialized in the air behind Deirdre. Solidifying quickly, it became a blunt hammer with a head of slate-gray steel and a haft of sturdy oak, suspended behind and above the princess.

  But as Tavish passed beneath it, the hammer smashed downward, dropping that solid head straight onto the bard’s scalp, bashing her with brutal force. The harpist dropped like a felled tree, collapsing, motionless, amid the rocks and grass.

  Deirdre never even turned around. “Welcome, Exalted Inquisitor, to the dawn of a new era!” she said, holding forth a hand. To Tristan’s bitter rage, Parell Hyath stepped forward from the concealment of a nearby clump of rocks, advancing to take his place beside Deirdre. Now Tristan recognized the voice of the spell-caster, too late to do any good.

  “We suspected some trickery from you,” the cleric explained condescendingly. “Therefore we decided it would be best if I remained concealed until your hand was revealed. Though I must admit,” the inquisitor added, turning to Keane and clucking in mock disappointment, “I had expected the principal troublemaker to be you.”

  “This affront to the goddess will not pass!” Alicia shouted suddenly.

  The priest and princess stood together on the knoll, regarding Alicia with amused tolerance. “We do not hope for it to pass … not just yet,” explained the inquisitor. “For only when the goddess makes her will known shall that will be bent to ours.”

  * * * * *

  Talos and Helm pressed close as the powerful demigod stirred from his age-long imprisonment.

  Grond sensed the surrounding presence of his ancient enemy, the Earthmother. Beyond the cloak of the world, he felt other immortal beings—lords who promised mastery, power … and freedom. This promise to the Peaksmasher the New Gods sealed with the presence of the Silverhaft Axe, and against that ancient talisman, he could offer no resistance.

  The pulse of the goddess was strong in the bedrock below him, but all of the demigod’s might was focused on the surface of the world now, against the pitiful and helpless creatures within range of his crushing fists.

  16

  Clash of the Avatars

  Robyn flew steadily northward, driven by consuming urgency. Her wings stroked the air in rhythmic cadence, and though cool wind streamed past her feathered skin, her entire body burned with a conflagration of fear.

  Would she be too late? That question propelled her and terrified her, for she knew that the task before her was the most important of her life. For too long, worldly concerns had kept her content, even complacent. Now she knew the truth—the terrible vulnerability of the goddess, and the threats from within and without her realm. Gods such as Talos and Helm loomed, ambitious and mighty, while the demigod Grond Peaksmasher could tear her apart from within.

  This knowledge filled the High Queen with a sense of inadequacy and failure. At the same time, she knew a kind of desperate abandonment, a willingness to do anything in order to thwart these onslaughts.

  Of course, opportunity for redemption might already have passed her by. How could she have wasted so much time? Over and over she chastised herself, as if the criticism would infuse her wings with greater strength, her lungs with increased stamina.

  Somehow the druid queen’s meditations at the Moonwell had occupied her far longer than Robyn had been even vaguely aware. The warmth of spirit had surrounded her, and she had sat entranced throughout the night of the full moon, allowing the spirit of the goddess to take possession of her, to infuse the human body with the immortal power of the Earthmother. It had been an expansive experience, unlike anything she had ever known, and it had carried Robyn far from her body, far from her world and her mortality. She soared on the wings of the Earthmother, journeying wherever she would, wherever the desires of the goddess took her.

  Yet unlike her daughter, who had also walked the paths of the gods, Robyn did not experience a vastness, an infinity like Deirdre’s. For the universe of the Earthmother was most definitely contained and limited, surrounded by the Trackless Sea and marked only by the outcrops of rock, earth, and life known as the Moonshaes.

  In this domain, the High Queen had witnessed the awakening of Grond Peaksmasher, had observed the trials and dangers endured by her husband and his companions. And then, most terrifying of all, her spiritual journey had allowed her to look directly into her daughter Deirdre’s heart.

  It was the latter vision that had jolted her awake and filled her with a sense of the most dire alarm. Though her return to awareness struck her at sunset, she had immediately taken to the air, chagrined that her musings had apparently lasted a full day. But then several hours had passed, and the moon had not risen, had not even glimmered in the east. And when it finally made its appearance, halfway to midnight, it had already shrunk well below the circle of its fullness. The meaning was apparent to Robyn: Her trance had lasted not just for a full night, but for three or four days!

  Thus the desire that drove the wings of the white hawk had become a keen desperation. What had already happened? What was left to do? These were the questions that raged through her mind as she soared from Myrloch Vale, arrowed through the sky over Winterglen, and finally crossed the Strait of Oman. Here, even at her lofty elevation, the summit of the Icepeak loomed above her, and she was forced to veer around the mountain.

  For, at the very least, her meditations had shown her where she had to go.

  Finally the north valley of the Icepeak came into view, and as she saw the col
ossus there, she felt no overwhelming sense of surprise. The vision had been too clear, too undeniable. Instead, she felt a growing sense of outrage and violation, a sense that grew from beyond herself, as if the whole island had been corrupted.

  The mountain that was Grond Peaksmasher, she knew, was a tool of the gods who had so long strived to overwhelm the Earthmother, to drive that goddess from the magical domain of her islands. It had been the mission of Robyn’s life to stave off those incursions, and it was a task wherein she had already failed once. She remained well aware that it had been only her elder daughter’s faith and tenacity that had previously broken the spell holding the Earthmother in thrall.

  Now, however, it was up to Robyn to make sure that her goddess’s freedom remained unchecked. This looming god was a great threat to that vibrant vitality, and it was one Robyn could not let pass unchallenged.

  As she soared lower, the figures on the ground became visible. She saw the deep pit and recognized Tristan and Alicia. She saw other humans and many dwarves trapped there as well. Desperately Robyn wished that she could spare the time to go to them, could at least share with her family the sense of overwhelming love that drove her now into her most desperate attack.

  Outside the pit, Robyn saw her daughter Deirdre and the patriarch of Helm. When she recognized the latter, a squawk of anger burst from her hawk’s beak, for even the self-disciplined druid was unable to entirely contain her outrage.

  Then she dove, feeling the power of the goddess surge through her. She was more than the great druid now, more even than the druid queen. As her spirit expanded, nourished by her days of meditation and trance, and she faced the looming bulk of the New Gods’ power, she became something awe-inspiring, immortal in her own right.

  In the force of that swooping dive, Robyn Kendrick, High Queen of the Isles, became the avatar of the Earthmother.

  * * * * *

  “Damn the curse that blinds her!” Tristan swore, shaking his fist at the disappearing firbolgs. Beside him, Ranthal paced and barked.

  The brutes had just lowered them into the pit with the rest of his companions, and now he railed at the backs of the giants, arms clasped around swords, shields, and axes, who walked away with the weapons of the humans and dwarves. The firbolgs quickly disappeared from sight, since the prisoners in the pit could see only a short distance beyond the rim of the enclosure.

  Just then the shriek of the white hawk pierced the breezy air in the valley, and the king peered anxiously into the sky. “Robyn! It’s a trap!” he cried, his voice lost in the wind that suddenly arose.

  “What are you guys doing in here?” asked Newt, appearing between Tristan and Alicia as they stood beside the gray barrier of the granite wall.

  “We have to get out!” Tristan barked, returning to his inspection of the sheer surface. It was only twelve feet high or so, but the sides had been thoroughly smoothed and provided no handholds. It made a very effective prison.

  “Well, don’t be mad at me!” the faerie dragon huffed, quickly disappearing again.

  Keane approached, his gait maddeningly nonchalant to the king. Yet Tristan sensed something conspiratorial in the man’s walk, so the king turned back to the cliff, as if continuing his inspection. Keane came to a stop beside him.

  “There may be a way—at least for one of us to get out of here,” the young wizard said, his tone low and elaborately conversational. “I have a spell of levitation. It can lift me to the top, where I just might be able to do some good.”

  Tristan looked at him thoughtfully. “Just you?” he asked.

  “Well, just a single person,” the mage amended. “Though I thought that I could do the most—”

  “Please!” the king said, his voice desperate. “That’s my wife and my daughter up there! Use the spell on me!”

  “But … Your Majesty,” Keane objected. “You have no weapons!” He bit back another remark, concerning the king’s missing hand. He saw the desperation in Tristan’s eyes but tried to dissuade him rationally. “At least I could use my spells to some effect!” he concluded lamely.

  “Think about the fact that they put you in here without restraint,” Tristan urged, his eyes turning crafty. “They know of your powers! Perhaps they’re watching you right now, waiting for you to make some move for freedom! They won’t expect the same from me!”

  “But … the danger—!”

  “Keane!” Tristan’s voice was level and tense. “I won’t, I can’t order you to do this. The goddess knows you’ve earned the right to rule yourself. But please, man … it’s Robyn!”

  “Very well, Sire,” Keane said miserably. He looked around the fringe of the pit—at least, at as much as they could see of it from inside the hole. None of the firbolgs were in sight, and Deirdre and the cleric, so far as they knew, had gone over to the base of Grond Peaksmasher.

  “Gravatius … deni,” muttered Keane, touching a hand to the king’s arm. Immediately Tristan started to rise from the ground. “Be careful, Sire!” the wizard whispered after him.

  The High King kept his hand close to the wall, looking over his shoulder. As he rose higher, he saw several firbolgs across the pit, but fortunately their eyes were inevitably drawn to the scene above them. When he looked up to follow their gaze, he understood why. The queen, his wife, flew in the body of the white hawk, circling and diving at the mountain that was Grond Peaksmasher. The struggle would have seemed ludicrous to the king, if not for the fact that he understood the stakes.

  The Peaksmasher reached outward with craggy fingers of granite at the bird, which seemed to swirl effortlessly away from the blunt, sweeping hand. Robyn screeched again, and the sound was a jarring note that rocked the giant backward. Grond threw his hands over his ears with a thunderclap of noise and bellowed his outrage against the affront of the Earthmother’s cry.

  The bird came to rest upon a high outcrop of rock, a spire that approached the very crown of the Icepeak, beyond the reach even of the colossal giant. The Peaksmasher reached down and grasped a huge shoulder of rock, breaking it free from the mountainside in a showering landslide of rubble. Hoisting the solid chunk, the size of a large house, he hurled it at the spire where Robyn perched. Moments before impact, however, the great druid once again sprang into the air.

  Still rising gently, Tristan soon reached the top of the pit wall, checking to see that the firbolgs remained raptly engaged in the battle above. His feet on the ground again, the king sprinted for the cover of some nearby trees, tumbling over a low hummock and seeking the shelter of a streambed. He lay there for a moment, his mind whirling with tension—not for himself so much as fear for his wife and daughters.

  Where was his weapon? The question jerked him up to spy over the bank of the shallow stream. He looked around, cursing as he saw the gleaming pile of armaments that the firbolgs had piled on the ground—across the pit from him.

  Desperately, knowing that speed was as important as stealth, Tristan started down the rocky creek bed. The waterway twisted through a thick stand of trees, offering a modicum of concealment from the firbolgs. The king decided that he would try to circle the pit and somehow get to his weapon before the giant-kin reacted.

  The king failed to see, as he slipped along, that one of the giants had already observed him. Carrying a stout club, the firbolg moved into the woods not far away and started stalking carefully along the king’s tracks.

  Instead of checking behind himself, Tristan looked above, watching a piece of massive rock soar through the air, hurled by the colossus toward the flying druid. The chunk of mountain missed the hawk to shatter against the ridge, sending shards arcing through the air, showering into the valley below, and obscuring the shape of the gleaming white bird. Then Robyn screamed again and dove, plunging like an arrow toward the broad, mountainous surface at the base of the Peaksmasher’s back.

  * * * * *

  Hatred and rage burned in Baatlrap, flaring like a black flame in his evil, tortured mind. The shock of his wound expanded u
ntil it climaxed in a monstrous outrage, like a great wrong done not only to him, but also to the entire race of trollhood. Now vengeance awaited!

  The paths of the Rockbound Ways guided him, and he knew that he followed close upon the heels of those he hated, those who had rendered upon him the intolerable insult of his missing hand.

  Accompanying him were the survivors of the battle in Winterglen. These, too, were hateful and driven trolls. None of them bore the wounds of the Trollcleaver, but all had suffered hurt and indignity during the fight, even to the point of being slain, before regeneration gave them the mobility to limp from the field and heal completely.

  Pressing along the darkened passage, Baatlrap had no difficulty following the trail left by the human and dwarven party. Even if the dust on the floor hadn’t been disturbed, the troll’s keen nostrils would have been able to follow the hours-old scent of warm-blooded creatures in the dank air of the cavern, so long had it been since these corridors had seen the footsteps of such surface dwellers.

  The trolls’ fabled endurance and impressive speed didn’t require them to rest as often as their quarry. Thus the one-handed humanoid and his companions were only a scant hour or so behind the king’s party when they finally reached the long ascending stairway and the shimmering waterfall that screened the sunlit world beyond.

  Here, sensing the nearness of his quarry, Baatlrap wouldn’t allow his trolls to rest. Quickly the lanky creatures fell into file and continued the march to Icepeak Glacier.

  They loped up the trail in the narrow valley, winding their way easily around switchbacks that had slowed the humans and dwarves to a trudging crawl. Finally, as they neared the end of the valley, Baatlrap discerned through the trees the huge bulk of Grond Peaksmasher, and the awesome reality of the living mountain almost halted him in his tracks.

  “So the old hag was right!” he hissed, impressed in spite of himself. Yet the firbolgs weren’t the ones who had drawn him this far, and the hatred for the man with the deadly sword hadn’t begun to flag. He would continue on the trail of vengeance, though it seemed only reasonable to stay out of sight of the colossus.