The Druid Queen

by Douglas Niles

  The trolls dropped into a narrow gully, skulking along a shallow streambed in an effort to creep up the valley without exposing themselves to view. And then it seemed that the gods truly smiled upon Baatlrap, for as the monstrous troll came around a bend in the stream, he saw, not twenty feet away from him, the hateful man who had wounded him.

  A snarl escaped from the troll’s lips, and the man looked up, his eyes wide and frantic. Good—he knows his fate! The troll gloated silently. Then he noticed another fact, a thing that caused his craven heart to bubble with cruel glee.

  Now the man was unarmed, and Baatlrap could see no sign of that cleaving, deadly sword!

  * * * * *

  Thurgol followed the riverbed, observing the figure of the human who had somehow floated from the great pit. He watched the man sneak between the shallow banks, looking outward at the pit and the strange woman who had come so easily to master the independent firbolgs.

  The chieftain still wasn’t exactly sure how that had happened. In the instant that the Silverhaft Axe had been taken from his hands, it was as if his own will had been taken at the same time. After the theft of that mighty artifact, he’d had no power to resist any command of the black-haired human woman. Indeed Grond Peaksmasher, immortal lord of giantkind, apparently willed it so.

  The woman had told him to watch the humans, to see that they didn’t escape, and so he had set to the task resolutely. He’d been smart, it seemed, to post himself back in the woods, where he could observe any break for freedom without being seen himself.

  So now the one-handed man, the human who had seemed to be their leader, had somehow scaled the wall and tried to escape. Thurgol would simply have to see that this attempt failed. Unconsciously he tightened his grip on his club, picking up the pace of his own stealthy pursuit.

  Then he froze in his tracks, astounded, as he saw a large green shape springing up the streambed toward the escaped human and Thurgol. It was Baatlrap, leading a company of his savage humanoids! The giant-kin chieftain thought he must be going mad, but the troll was certainly real, for just then the human saw him, too.

  The one-handed man immediately reversed course at the sight of the troll, spinning so quickly that he saw Thurgol before the giant could even try to hide. The human leaped from the streambed, breaking through the underbrush and sprinting toward the clearing where Deirdre and the cleric stood.

  The troll sprang after him, but a sudden explosion of flames crackled through the woods, blocking Baatlrap’s path. The monster twisted out of the way as a small, brightly colored little dragon popped into sight, shouting shrill insults at the troll and pleading with the king to run faster.

  Bulling through a stand of pines, Thurgol charged forward to cut the man off. Firbolg, human, and troll all broke into the clear at once, and the man stumbled to a stop, too shrewd to get run down by the fleet-footed trolls.

  Thurgol felt a flash of pity for the human. It seemed that his valiant effort deserved something better than this. The firbolg watched as Baatlrap raised his sword and stepped closer to the unarmed human. The duel looked increasingly incongruous, the troll every bit of ten feet tall, with that evil-looking weapon reaching like a tree limb over his head. The human crouched, ready to dodge to either side, but without a weapon or shield, his situation was desperate in the extreme.

  Other trolls emerged from the trees, following Baatlrap to gather in a semicircle around the giant troll and his victim. The appearance of the green-skinned humanoids inflamed Thurgol. Just when he thought he was rid of his noxious comrades, they had arrived to dog his presence again. He shook his head and growled in frustration.

  “Wait!” Thurgol barked. “Put down your sword!” he commanded Baatlrap.

  “What?” objected the troll, pausing long enough to glare at Thurgol. “Shut up!”

  “No. Put down the sword and fight him fair—only you fight him,” commanded the firbolg, hefting his club for emphasis and advancing slowly on the troll. Perhaps Baatlrap remembered the fight on Codscove’s dock. Whatever it was, the troll’s brows lowered in an expression of sullen fear.

  Baatlrap snarled again while the man’s eyes flicked from one humanoid to the other. Finally, with a scowl of irritation, Baatlrap threw down his sword. Without another word, he sprang at the one-handed man.

  * * * * *

  Robyn’s body changed in the instant before she collided into the stones at the base of Grond Peaksmasher’s mountainous torso. Her shape shifted, as it had so many times before, but this time it did not assume the form of an animal. Instead, her wings tucked backward, her head outstretched, and she became an arrowhead of stone, driving toward bedrock. The transformation was instantaneous and complete, fusing the power of the goddess and the will of the druid queen.

  The Earthmother reached out, grasping Robyn’s physical shell and melding her into the raw, elemental power of the ground, joining them in a linking of power and will. The queen met the face of slate and merged, sinking through layers of rock to become one with the earth. Her soul remained intact, centered below the bulk of the Peaksmasher, but the physical reach of her body expanded to encompass the entire narrow valley, its sheer ridges, and even the massif of the high peak.

  Like a fundamental force of the earth, Robyn surged through dirt and stone and deeper layers of sand and shale. She seized the bedrock of the highlands with wrenching might, using every bit of her power—power expanded by the fresh presence of the vengeful goddess.

  The strength of the Earthmother, transmuted through mountain and hill and vale, twisted the surface of the world with violent, wracking force. Grond Peaksmasher bellowed like a continuous, booming thunderclap as the quaking earth took hold of him and tore at his vitals.

  “O Mighty One!” The demigod reeled as the words, the message, came to him, so it seemed, from within himself.

  “Hear me, Lord of Giants—hear me, please!”

  Robyn focused her will on the message, and as the earth convulsed from the pressure of the conflict, she waited, wondering if Grond Peaksmasher would understand.

  * * * * *

  Tristan ducked his left shoulder in the briefest of feints and then dove to the right, rolling away from the crushing pounce of the grotesque troll. It was as he rose to his feet that the earthquake struck, slamming him heavily back to the ground.

  Great fissures ripped along the ground, splitting into deep crevasses. Steam burst upward, and here and there rocks flew into the air, hurled with explosive force by the power of the contractions within the earth.

  The huge troll bounced upward with the first shock of the temblor. A fissure snaked past Tristan, and he felt a stab of hope as he saw the one-handed monster, flailing madly, slip over the rim and vanish. The other trolls had been knocked to the ground, and now they scuttled around in panic, seeking some shelter from the onslaught.

  Lurching to his feet, the king felt the ground still rocking underfoot, but he lunged away from the momentarily helpless trolls. Breaking into the clear, he raced toward the edge of the pit, hoping to get around the hole and reach his weapon. Another wave of force rolled across the valley floor. Large pieces of rock tumbled free from the high peaks, smashing downward to shatter on the lower slopes. Craggy shards shot through the air with death-dealing force, leaving dusty trails hanging in their wakes.

  Where was Robyn? Desperately the king looked around, fighting a growing sense of panic when he couldn’t see her. Had she vanished? Did she live?

  Then, looking across the regular outlines of the deep pit, Tristan saw the opposite rock wall crack and tumble away, great boulders plummeting straight down to shatter among the prisoners. Falling again as the ground bucked, the panicked king bounced to his feet and stumbled toward the enclosure. In his heart, he feared to look, feared what he would find beneath the rockslide. The most horrifying picture of all was an image of Alicia, trapped beneath the crushing weight of stone.

  He saw figures move, scrambling up the loose, treacherously shifting stone. In a m
oment of hope, Tristan realized that the edge of the pit had collapsed enough for the prisoners to escape. Reaching the opposite edge, he recognized Brigit’s blond hair, Brandon’s trailing braids. Then, with a palpable sigh of relief, he saw Alicia, with Keane’s lanky form right behind her. Ranthal, bounding like a panther, sprang after them.

  As soon as he reached the rim of the makeshift prison, the wizard blasted a lightning bolt full into the chest of a firbolg who stood guard over the cache of weapons taken from the companions upon their capture.

  Tristan risked a glance behind him, seeing the one-handed troll crawling forth from the crevasse. The monster picked up its jagged blade, which lay at the rim of the gap, and started toward the High King. A bright blue shape appeared in the air next to the troll, fluttering away from the monster’s vicious swing. Newt disappeared as another tremor swept the valley, slamming the king to the ground and knocking him senseless for a moment.

  When he recovered, he saw Hanrald kneeling beside him. There were tears in the earl’s eyes, tears that he shook away as soon as he saw Tristan blink and try to sit up.

  “Thank the goddess, Sire! I thought—” He couldn’t finish the sentence. “Here—I brought your sword!” he said instead, offering the hilt of Trollcleaver to Tristan as the king climbed back to his feet, keeping his stance wide in case the tremors returned.

  “Thanks yourself,” Tristan replied, feeling the good weight of his sword in the palm of his hand. He turned back to the troll, ready to use the weapon, ready to finish the task he had started with it once before.

  * * * * *

  Robyn, a force of nature, struggled to master the fundamental might of the earth. Pain wracked her nerves as the unnatural environment pressed against her, striving to extinguish the spark of her vitality. Yet only here, within the mountain itself, could she reach the demigod with her all-important message. Desperately, forcefully, she projected her thoughts into the awakening, immortal mind of Grond Peaksmasher.

  “You are part of this world, Mighty One—a living piece of the isles! Don’t make yourselves a tool of those who would slay that magic!”

  She urged and pleaded, not knowing if he heard. The idea was simple—for so long he had rested in the body of the Earthmother. Did he want to destroy her? Or would he, instead, resent the intrusion of external and disruptive forces?

  A dim, nebulous response reached her—not words, as such, but a vague, groaning question. It was a query that gave her hope, for it showed that Grond’s will was subject to doubt.

  “The Silverhaft Axe is merely a tool from the past. It is not a key to bind you against your will! You are being used—used to serve the invaders, those who would wrack the world of your body!”

  The response grew more definite, becoming a sense of anger, of dark and implacable resentment that began to swell into a rising force. She struggled to continue, striving against the overwhelming weight of the mountain.

  “Your enemies are not these humans and dwarves, nor those who wield the axe. Strive instead against those who seek to steal your will! You must assert that power before it is too late!”

  The strain of her expansive form tore at Robyn’s soul, and the rock smothered her. Desperately, like a foundering swimmer seeking a breath of air, she turned her soul upward, seeking to break free from the bedrock of the world. It was too late; she sensed that she would perish here, unheralded, failing once again to work the will of the Earthmother. Strata of rock split and twisted around her as once again the convulsions shook the land.

  But now, finally, she could see light, feel air against her face. As the earthquake ripped a crack through the world, the druid queen reached upward and scrambled out, standing on the edge and seemingly impervious to the pitching rock beneath her feet.

  Overhead, the monolith of the Peaksmasher settled its great arms to the ground. The massive head slumped, the eyes closing, as if the demigod suffered a loss of power and will. For a second, silence hung over the valley, broken only by the receding rumbles of the quake’s echoes.

  A screech of inhuman rage spun Robyn around, and she saw the body of her younger daughter, her face distorted by rage and the massive axe raised high in her hands, charging toward her. But it was only the form of the princess, Robyn told herself. Deirdre’s soul was already gone.

  Or so the queen argued, savagely determined to make herself believe. It was the only way she could prepare herself for the terrible thing she had to do. She’s already dead!

  Coldly impassive, the druid queen raised her hands and prepared to meet Deirdre in an embrace of doom.

  * * * * *

  Hanrald and Brigit raced toward the trolls in Tristan’s wake, charging on either flank of the monarch. Ranthal, too, lunged, snarling, toward the enemy. The darting shape of Newt, his scales a bright crimson for battle, flashed through the air. Flushed with hope, the warriors attacked valiantly, determined to capitalize on their good fortune. Leading the attack, the High King sprinted toward the massive troll with the evil, jagged-bladed sword.

  More trolls emerged from the woods to try to block the king’s path. Tristan cut down the first one and kept going, while the earl and the elfwoman raised their blades against another pair. Dimly he saw the great firbolg, surrounded by his giant-kin companions, standing mutely at the side of the battle. They watched, but they did not attack. He didn’t have time to wonder why.

  Hanrald chopped down a troll, but then the blow of a second sent him reeling. Twisting, he saw a golden-haired figure fly past him, driving a shining steel blade deep into the troll’s belly. The monster bellowed and tumbled away.

  But a third troll had avoided discovery for a second too long. It leaped from the shadows behind a rock, dodging around Brigit’s sharp parrying blow. With a sweeping dive, the creature ripped a clawed hand across the sister’s knight’s face. Brigit made no sound as her head twisted around. Instead, the Llewyrr knight fell soundlessly to the earth, lying in a growing pool of blood.

  “No!” Hanrald screamed, hacking his sword through the body of the hateful beast, dropping the troll in two pieces. The grotesque remains writhed upon the ground, each scrambling away from the fight, but the man’s horrified eyes had already turned back to the pathetic, motionless figure on the ground.

  Groaning unconsciously, he knelt beside Brigit, gently reaching out to touch her cheek. Her eyelids were shut, and no sign of breath disturbed the golden strands of hair that had fallen over her mouth and nose.

  But she was not dead—not quite yet, in any event. Her eyes, large and almond-shaped, fluttered open, and she looked up at him in a mute expression of her love. And when he clasped her small hand in his, he felt the slight returning pressure of her grip.

  Then, as his heart broke, she died.

  * * * * *

  Tristan confronted the one-handed troll as the monster raised his toothed sword. When the beast leaped at him, the king slashed deeply into one of his legs, knocking him to the ground. Grim and implacable, as the monster wriggled at his feet, screaming, the High King drove the tip of Trollcleaver through the troll’s foul heart.

  A circle of the monsters had collected around him, standing well back from his gory blade, silently staring at the dead body of their leader. Tristan wasn’t certain whether they intended to attack or flee, but the question quickly became immaterial as Grond Peaksmasher extended a stony arm and brought the massive, rock-studded club of his fist to earth, crushing the monsters in a single, smashing blow.

  Too surprised to wonder about the colossus’s apparent change of sides, the king turned back to his companions. Then, closer, he saw Deirdre and Robyn facing each other. Racing to them, he stumbled in between the two.

  “No!” shouted Robyn. “This is my fight!”

  “There won’t be a fight!” he shouted back. “This is Deirdre—your daughter!”

  “She is not our daughter! She has become the sword of the New Gods!” Robyn screamed back.

  Deirdre lunged, swinging the axe into an arc th
at would have cut through Tristan and into Robyn had it landed. But stone fingers dropped from above with surprising quickness, plucking the diamond blade from Deirdre’s fingers. Grond raised the axe, the artifact looking insignificant and tiny in his hands. Then, with a flick of his fingers, he crushed it to dust.

  The dark-haired princess shrieked in rage, her face distorted beyond humanity. Like a deranged banshee, she raised her hands, spitting the initial commands to a destructive spell.

  Before the incantation was complete, the tip of a steel blade erupted from Deirdre’s chest in a fountain of blood. The princess looked down, gaping without comprehension, before slumping face forward to the ground.

  Her sister, High Princess Alicia, stood behind her, blood still trickling down her blade while she stared at Deirdre’s body in uncomprehending shock.

  * * * * *

  Exalted Inquisitor Parell Hyath stood upon the brink of pitching chaos, his hands held over his stomach in a posture of reflection and contemplation. This goddess, this Earthmother, was a deity of power beyond his calculations. Clearly it was time to summon his chariot, to return to societies more fertile to the dogma of Helm.

  But before he could cast that spell, another man stepped from behind a tree. Hyath recognized Keane.

  “It was you,” said the wizard, his voice level. “I know that now. Once before I saw a spell cast in that pose, hands clasped over a fat belly. It was you!”

  “What are you talking about?” demanded the priest.

  “It’s the earthquake that made me remember,” Keane explained, slowly approaching the cleric. Hyath took a step backward, frightened by some vague menace in the magic-user’s demeanor. “I saw you during another one, another earthquake, but not so great as this.”

  “Explain yourself!” shouted Parell Hyath.

  “In Baldur’s Gate,” the wizard continued, his voice still low and calm. “You cast the spell that consumed Bakar Dalsoritan. You killed him!”