Darkwalker on Moonshae, page 18
Keren launched an arrow from his mighty bow. The missile tore into the thigh of one of the Firbolgs, dropping the creature in its tracks. The bard’s second shot thudded solidly into the Firbolg leader’s shoulder, but the creature ignored the wound. Pawldo also fired, but his arrows seemed to be little more than pinpricks to the hulking attackers.
Robyn was standing beside the proud unicorn, oddly calm. Tristan saw Finellen fingering her dagger and starting to slip forward. Yet their chances of winning the fight appeared slim, until, suddenly, something glimmered in the field before them.
“What’s happening?” Before he could think of an answer to Robyn’s question, Tristan realized that many of the Firbolgs had stopped advancing. Some fell thrashing to the ground, while others swung their weapons viciously against something unseen in the air.
The scar-faced Firbolg leader turned and bellowed orders at his minions. Then he, too, seemed to lose his mind, striking at nothing, and grunting in fear. For a brief second, the prince’s mind reeled with confusion. Then he understood what was happening.
“Come on!” he cried, leaping forward toward the half dozen or so Firbolgs who had not been affected by the strange madness. Tristan knew that he and his companions had been given a fantastic opportunity, but they needed to capitalize upon it quickly.
The white unicorn thundered past him, its ivory horn zeroing in on the chest of a Firbolg. Finellen, uttering a bloodthirsty yell, sprinted along at his side. Her eyes, he noticed, glowed with a savage joy.
Twin streaks flashed over his head, and he knew that the two archers had gone to work. Keren seemed to have recovered his aim, for his bolt lodged deep in the throat of one of the Firbolgs, striking it, gasping and dying, to the ground. Pawldo’s missile lodged in the eye of another Firbolg, triggering pain. Berserk, the Firbolg bolted into the thickets.
Two Firbolgs stood before Tristan, but the unicorn’s charge knocked one flat. The tough horn turned the creature’s chest into a splintered mass of blood and bone. Tristan ducked under the blow of the other Firbolg and drove his potent blade upward. With a blood-curdling scream, the Firbolg swooned backward and died.
For a brief moment the prince paused in wonder. He had slain a Firbolg with a single blow! Then, another of the monsters charged toward him, and he raised his guard.
A flash of brown crossed the periphery of his vision, and Canthus led the hounds into the fight. At the same time, a shrieking black shadow dived from the skies to scratch at the eyes of another Firbolg. Crying shrilly, Sable rose quickly to make another attack.
“Hey, you guys!” The high-pitched voice, Tristan knew, could only belong to Newt. Sure enough, the little dragon popped into view in the midst of the melee.
“Boy, I sure played a trick on them! Did you see the way they rolled around and stabbed the air and looked so silly? I laughed so hard I could hardly stay invisible!” Newt clasped his forepaws, almost as if he were applauding himself, which he probably was.
“Thanks, little friend!” said Tristan. I thought I detected your … unique touch!”
“Look!” Robyn cried, pointing to the rest of the Firbolgs. They saw that Newt’s enchantment was wearing off. Though groggy, the Firbolgs were looking in stupefaction at the companions, standing among the dead bodies of their comrades.
“Run!” shouted the prince. “To the horses!”
As a group they bolted into the thicket. Daryth led the way, forcing his way through the woods to the small clearing where they had left the mounts. The steeds, unharmed, nickered in welcome at their approach.
Tristan followed the party in the rear, keeping an eye on the Firbolgs. They seemed not entirely recovered, and he guessed—at least he hoped—that they would not be able to organize a pursuit for several minutes yet.
The companions mounted quickly, thankful that they had brought extra horses. They turned to ride from the area when the building behind them shuddered and groaned. Smoke billowed heavily from the door they had emerged from. The ground shook with the force of a heavy crash, and suddenly the smoke blossomed from the top of the temple.
“The roof is collapsing!” shouted Keren. “Look!”
The smoke trails emerging from the door immediately reversed course as a tremendous cloud rose into the air. The fire built to a roaring intensity as its air supply improved. They heard a tremendous sucking noise as air was pulled into the building, feeding the flames.
The force of the sucking draft uprooted small bushes, and created a forceful wind. Orange flames towered into the sky.
This fire would burn for a long time.
Kazgoroth sensed the presence of the huge shape as it passed far below the surface of the sea. The Beast could feel the massive body rising—could sense the awesome might of its attack, as it rose toward the fleet. Kazgoroth even guessed, correctly, which longship would be the creature’s first victim.
In the guise of Thelgaar, the Beast had led the fleet of longships from Iron Bay on a journey south, along the coast of Gwynneth. The heavy rams had indeed proved troublesome, as three ships had foundered in moderate seas during the voyage. Now, however, Kazgoroth knew that the potent enchantments laid on the beams would give them their only chance of dealing with the leviathan.
The massive creature erupted from the water like lava from a volcano. One entire ship, and fifty men, met an instant end between the crushing jaws. As the huge shape, bigger than anything living in the world, crashed back to the water, another longship capsized from the monstrous waves.
“To your oars!” the figure of Thelgaar bellowed, from the bow of his longship. Somehow the voice carried clearly across the churning sea, to the ears of every northman in the fleet.
And with the voice came a deadening of fear and thought.
The northmen heard the words, but mostly they felt the power of Kazgoroth’s unnatural essence. And the power enchanted them, so that they became capable of nothing more than following the orders of their king. Certainly, without this enchantment, the appearance of the leviathan would have driven them mad with terror.
But now the longships surged forward as callused hands took the oars. Transfixed by the awesome sight of their leader, the northmen ignored the deaths of their comrades, seeking only to hear and obey the next command.
“Swing starboard!” The next order rang out with the same clarity as the first.
Like choreographed dancers, several hundred longships swung gracefully to the right. The frothing surface where the leviathan had disappeared melted back to the dark gray of the rest of the sea. The longships raced ahead, as sails were trimmed and oarpower gained momentum.
Kazgoroth again felt the leviathan climbing, and calmly watched it destroy another longship in the same manner as the first. The massive tail smashed another vessel to splinters as the creature crashed back to the surface.
The Beast waited again, pleased with the effect of its enchantment. The northmen rowed like automatons, showing no signs of panic. Kazgoroth knew that the leviathan would soon change its tactics, for the leaping and diving attacks would sap its strength too quickly.
And then, when it attacked from the surface, the poisoned rams would work their own magic. The crewmen on his ship saw Thelgaar stoop down and open a long crate that he had stored in the bow. From the crate he extracted a harpoon—one such as these sailors had never seen before. Thicker than a giant’s wrist, it seemed nearly as long as one of the oars. The head of the weapon was a wicked barb of black, corroded steel. The air around the barb shimmered from the effect of its putrid essence.
The leviathan attacked again, and again, diving deep and then crushing a ship between its awesome jaws. Often, its tail, or the huge splash created by its body, would crush or swamp another vessel.
Kazgoroth watched perhaps a score of his vessels die thus, before the leviathan began to tire. Now, instead of diving, it swam just below the surface among the longships. Its great back rolled above the water like the coils of a snake. It turned suddenly and caved in the hull of a longship. It capsized another with a flip of its tail.
“Attack!” Thelgaar’s voice boomed forward, propelled by the power of Kazgoroth. “Ram the beast!”
The longships now veered toward the monster, triggering dozens of collisions as the sailors, their wits slowed by the enchantment, could not take proper care with the maneuver. Nonetheless, a hundred longships closed in on the creature.
Several died from the powerful strokes of the tail, or the crushing bite of the massive jaws. While making one of these bites, however, a ram plunged through the leviathan’s jaw. Roaring with pain, the creature bucked backward, sinking several more ships with the frenzy of its agony.
Kazgoroth felt some small dismay, for the fleet suffered greater losses than the Beast had anticipated. It cared nothing for the dying sailors, only for the loss of valuable tools in the master plan.
Still, the northmen’s persistence began to tell. As the leviathan thrashed, another of the wicked rams plunged into its flank, tracing a long and bloody wound before breaking from the ship. Now the sea creature’s thrashing became more frantic, and a dozen longships suffered accidental destruction or damage. Several more of the rams slashed into the slippery flanks, and the creature’s struggles began to weaken.
“Forward!” cried Thelgaar, in a voice intended for his own crew alone. The longship darted forward, the figure of the white-bearded king standing proudly in the bow. His upraised arm held the impossibly large harpoon.
The ship drove close to the leviathan’s massive head, which now rolled listlessly at the surface. Thelgaar’s powerful shoulders flexed, and the harpoon rocketed forward to plunge deep into the shiny black shape, just behind one of the massive eyes.
The leviathan twitched convulsively. A long column of bubbles arose from its mouth. The huge creature struggled to keep its eyes open as it sank into the dark and frigid depths.
“That was some fight, wasn’t it? I haven’t had that much fun in, oh, I don’t know how many years!” The little dragon chattered incessantly, as they slowly left the Firbolg stronghold behind.
“Say, I’ve got a great idea! Let’s go back and do it again! There must be a few Firbolgs left for us to torture!” Newt giggled with excitement at the thought of additional pranks.
“Um, maybe some other time,” said Tristan, gently trying to dissuade their enthusiastic comrade.
“And where did you come from, friend?” asked Keren, as the little dragon remained visible for several seconds at a stretch.
“Why, I’m Newt, of course, and I live around here. Your friends had gotten themselves into terrible trouble, but lucky for them I happened to come along when I did. If I had been just a little later, well, who knows what would have happened? But there’s certainly no point in dwelling on that!”
“Well done, Newt,” said the bard, laughing. “It seems we owe you our lives!”
“Well, of course you do. I mean, really—what did you expect? Say, aren’t you that bard fellow they dragged in awhile back? I thought you were dead, but, oh dear, it seems that you’re not. Oh, this really is too bad—”
“Why is it too bad that our friend is alive?” demanded Robyn.
“Well, I do so hate to be wrong, and I told them all that you were probably dead, but you had to show up, alive as a hive of bees, and now—oh, but don’t get me wrong. I think it’s really quite splendid that you’re alive—really I do.”
“Indeed,” nodded Keren. “Well, I’m quite relieved to hear that, Newt.”
“Me too!” snorted Finellen. “I’ve always wanted to owe my life to a blue worm!”
Newt just said “Hummph!” and turned invisible.
The companions rode hard, paying little attention to direction, only seeking to put much distance between themselves and the Firbolgs. The horses flew eagerly across the rugged terrain, forcing their way through dense thickets of thorns and creepers.
After some miles, the unicorn gave a signal and they all reined in, briefly. Robyn dismounted and walked over to the magnificent animal who regarded them with huge eyes. She stroked its neck, and Tristan would have sworn that words exchanged between them, though he heard nothing.
Then, with a proud toss of its head, the unicorn turned and galloped away. The sleek white coat was visible among the tangled fens for some time, and they all watched until it had disappeared from sight.
Robyn said nothing, so they returned to their flight, riding now without panic but covering ground very quickly. Though Tristan wasn’t certain, he thought their course was carrying them generally toward the east, away from the direction they had entered the fens.
Behind them, rising higher and higher every minute, a thick black pillar of smoke billowed into the air.
Grunnarch the Red selected his first target with care. The shock of the landing caught the large fishing village nearly by surprise. Many of the Ffolk fled inland but they were forced to leave all their possessions behind. Those who did not flee the raiders swiftly enough fell dead beneath swinging battleaxes or were taken as slaves and felt the bite of cold chains.
The northmen torched the village after collecting everything of value. The fishing boats at anchor in the sheltered cove were sunk or burned, and much livestock was slaughtered. Even before the flames climbed from the roof of the last cottage, the Bloodriders had disembarked their horses.
“Go,” ordered the Red King. “Make haste, and show no mercy.”
Laric smiled, the expression stretching the pasty skin across his cheeks into a grotesque mask. The captain’s eyes smoldered with bloodlust, and Grunnarch fancied that they grew brighter at the thought of the killing to come.
“Do not worry,” said Laric, swinging into the saddle of his sleek black stallion. “Mercy will not be a concern of mine.” Laric swung his arm forward, as his red cape made a fluid arc around him. Behind him, one hundred frenzied Riders struck out for the next cantrev.
In the ruins of the village, the bulk of Grunnarch’s army feasted and drank well into the night. Many of the slaves—young women—suffered horribly, as objects of pleasure for the raiders.
The following morning, the northmen reembarked, sailing down the coast to strike at another fishing cantrev. Again and again they struck the small, isolated communities of the Ffolk, burning, killing, and enslaving. The Bloodriders rode miles inland, paralleling the progress of the fleet as it sailed southward along the coast, taking particular pleasure in wreaking destruction and death upon the inland Ffolk.
After several raids, the alarm was carried throughout the countryside. The word of the depredations traveled even faster than the scourging advance of the Bloodriders. The deeds of those scarlet-garbed horsemen exceeded the horrors of their seaborne countrymen. The Bloodriders could not burden themselves with slaves, so survivors of their raids were rare.
As pandemonium spread in the land, however, the northmen found village after village abandoned before they had reached it. Valuables and livestock had been removed, and the inhabitants had fled further inland.
Finding a large and sheltered bay in the center of Corwell’s eastern coastline, Grunnarch ordered his fleet beached. As planned, here the Bloodriders reunited with the army. A few of the older men were detailed to watch the slaves and the ships, while the rest of the warriors prepared to march.
It was time, Grunnarch knew, to begin the second phase of Thelgaar’s master plan.
“Where’s Newt?”
Robyn’s question brought the companions up short.
They reined in their mounts and looked around, realizing that there had been no sign of the little dragon for some time. They did not risk calling aloud for him—they could not take the chance of advertising their position.
“He must have gone back home,” surmised the prince. “Wherever that is.”
“He’s quite a character,” observed Keren. “We owe him a lot.”
“Indeed,” the others agreed. The diminutive serpent—Finellen described him as a faerie dragon—had saved their lives with his timely “prank.”
“But our food will last a little longer now,” observed Pawldo, ruefully contemplating his almost empty saddlebags.
“We’re better off without him,” observed Finellen. “You can’t trust a faerie dragon as far as you can see him—when he’s invisible.”
By nightfall they emerged from the fens, and found a dry and grassy clearing for their camp. The ground had climbed slightly from the lowlands of the swamp, and they could look back on their path of the last few days.
“Look at that,” remarked Daryth in awe. The towering column of smoke still dominated the sky behind them.
“How many Firbolgs do you suppose we killed?” asked Tristan.
“A lot, I’m sure—but a lot of them got away, without a doubt,” replied Keren.
“And every one of ’em is looking for us,” muttered Pawldo, dismounting stiffly as they halted for the night.
They decided not to risk building a fire, and the warm summer night made this no discomfort. Still tense and jumpy from the intense combat and flight of the day, the companions sat quietly in their grassy bower. The light of a half moon, pouring from a clear sky, gave them illumination and some small comfort. The crimson glow in the western sky added a surreal effect to their surroundings.
“You haven’t told us how you came to be the guests of the Firbolgs,” said Robyn, after a long period of silence.
“Well, it was foolish, actually. I decided to take a short cut—through Myrloch Vale—on my way to the coast.” Keren smiled, sheepishly. “It was the long way around, to tell the truth, but I couldn’t pass up the chance to see Myrloch again, when I was so close.
“Anyway, I got ambushed practically as soon as I came over the pass—a bunch of them got me surrounded and tackled me. Sable put more than one eye out, but they almost got him too.”
