Darkwalker on Moonshae, page 2
“You overestimate the size of my purse,” retorted the prince, knowing full well that the price was going to stretch the limits of his allowance. Ruefully, Tristan groped for a bargaining strategy, but his purse felt very vulnerable. Pawldo knew him too well; the prince could not resist such a magnificent dog.
“I can offer you forty, but that is all I—”
“Forty gold,” pronounced Pawldo, still playing the crowd. “A respectable sum, for a dog. If we talked of a normal dog, I would say yes in an instant.”
“Fifty,” declared the prince, starting to get annoyed at the high cost of doing business with Pawldo.
“Sold!”
“Well done! Bravo!”
The praise was accompanied by hearty handclapping and a delighted, feminine laugh.
“Thank you, my dear Lady Robyn,” acknowledged Pawldo, with a theatrical bow.
“And you—I’m surprised you got that crooked halfling down from a hundred,” Robyn said to Tristan. The young woman’s black hair gleamed in the sunlight, and her green eyes sparkled. Unlike most of the young ladies at the festival, she was clad in practical garb—green leggings and a cape the color of bright rust. Yet her beauty outshone that of the most daintily dressed maidens.
The prince returned Robyn’s bright smile, pleased to encounter her. The festival would be even more fun if he could enjoy it with her on his arm.
“Are you here to buy a dog?” he asked, ignoring Pawldo’s outstretched hand.
“No. I just came down here to see the animals. The castle was too dark and cold for such a lovely day!”
“Did you talk to my father this morning?” Tristan asked, and immediately wished he hadn’t when he saw the flash of pain on her face.
“No,” she said quietly, turning her head to the side. “The king … wanted to be alone.”
“I understand,” replied Tristan. He looked at the mass of Caer Corwell, towering above the commonsfield on its rocky knoll, and thought briefly of his father. If the king would not even see Robyn—his beloved ward—then he would have nothing to do with anyone.
“Never mind. Let the old coot sit and brood if he wants to!” Tristan ignored the hurt look upon Robyn’s face. “Did you see my new prize?”
“He’s a fine animal,” admitted Robyn somewhat coldly. “But so was his price!”
“Yes, indeed,” chuckled Pawldo. The halfling thrust out his hand again.
Tristan reached for his coin purse. He took minor notice of a crimson flash to the side—the passing of the Calishite in his bright cloak.
And then his hand closed upon air, where the fat pouch had been.
He looked toward the ground, suddenly alarmed, but then turned and stared. The red cloak was nowhere to be seen.
“Thief!” Tristan cursed loudly, and sprinted in the direction he had last seen the flash of crimson. Robyn and Pawldo, momentarily surprised, started after him.
Darting around a tent, and barely avoiding a tall stack of kegs, Tristan saw the flash of red some distance away. He caught a glimpse of dark eyes, and then his quarry disappeared.
The prince dashed through a wine tent, leaping several low benches and scattering several early imbibers. Stumbling from the canvas structure back into the aisle between tents, he looked for the thief.
Again the flash of red, and this time the prince closed the distance. The Calishite sprang away with renewed speed, pushing roughly through groups of people, and once spilling a stack of pots and pans into the prince’s path. The thief ran well, but Tristan’s legs carried him quickly over the ground, springing over obstacles or cutting sharply around corners. Often Arlen, the prince’s frustrated teacher, had forced his student to run across the moors for hours at a time, developing his endurance and, incidentally, using up boyish energy. That training now paid off as Tristan picked up speed down a straight aisle.
People turned to gape in astonishment at the two runners. Quickly, the chase drew the attention of the festival-goers. Many of the Ffolk, recognizing Tristan and thinking it was some sort of merry game, gave shouts and laughter of encouragement; soon the prince was followed by an enthusiastic throng urging him on.
Finally the prince closed the gap; with a desperate dive, he grabbed the crimson cloak and jerked the thief to the ground. Tristan fell heavily over him, rolling once and then springing to his feet. The thief also recovered, but by the time he stood, the pair were surrounded by a mob of festivalgoers.
Whirling, the swarthy Calishite confronted the prince with a long, curved dagger. Tristan quickly snatched his own hunting blade from its sheath and stopped ten feet from the Calishite. For several seconds, the pair observed and judged each other.
The thief, about Tristan’s size and not much older, began to grin in anticipation, though it was mixed with grudging respect for his opponent. The black eyes flashed with humor, and danger, and the thief’s stance beckoned.
As Tristan paused, the curved dagger flashed outward and up. The prince instinctively blocked the blow with his own knife, but he was shocked by the swiftness of the hissing blade.
The thief, too, looked surprised at the quickness of the parry. “You use it well,” he acknowledged in heavily accented Commonspeech, indicating the heavy knife.
The crowd grew rapidly, but stood well back from the fight. Their mood was tense and quiet now, as they sensed the danger. But no one dared to intervene.
For the first time, Tristan felt a flash of worry. The thief was so cool, even pleasant, yet he must know that he had been caught. Why did he not simply surrender?
Suddenly, catlike, the man sprang. The attack almost caught Tristan off guard, but his keyed instincts sent him darting to the side. He grasped the thief’s wrist as his attacker’s momentum carried him past. Then, kicking out sharply to the side, the prince knocked the Calishite to the ground.
But suddenly the grip in which Tristan held his foe reversed itself, and the prince felt himself being flung backward. The wind exploded from his lungs as he landed heavily on his back. Like lightning, the thief sprang toward his chest, curved dagger flashing toward the prince’s neck.
Ignoring the pain in his chest, Tristan thrust his knife to block the attack, then grasped his attacker’s wrist with his free hand. In a dizzying roll, they tumbled across the muddy grass, first one, then the other holding the advantage. Giving a wrenching twist, the thief suddenly broke free and stood. Before he could step clear, however, Tristan swept his leg through a circular kick. His foot landed behind the thief’s knee, and the man dropped heavily. Tristan leaped onto him, holding his knife to the stranger’s throat.
Slowly, the Calishite relaxed and then, amazingly, began to laugh. Tristan wondered if the man was crazy, then he realized he was nodding toward Tristan’s stomach. The prince looked down to see the curved dagger poised a scant hairsbreadth from his gut. As the prince tried to keep from gasping, the thief relaxed his hold, dropping the dagger to the ground.
“I had no wish to hurt you,” he announced, in a heavy accent. “I only wanted to see if I could best you.” He laughed again with unmistakable good humor.
“Stand aside! Make way!” A squeaking voice parted the crowd, and Pawldo burst through the ring of onlookers. With him came Erian, a great bear of a man and one of Caer Corwell’s veteran men-at-arms. Robyn trailed behind.
“Are you all right, my prince?” inquired the halfling.
Tristan was about to answer when he noticed, with some annoyance, that Robyn was not looking at him, nor did she seem in the least bit worried about him. Instead, she stared at the Calishite thief with a curiosity the prince found strangely objectionable. Suddenly she flashed a look at him, and grinned.
“That was a neat trick. Did you ever see a blade move so fast?”
Meanwhile, the thief regarded the prince, the guards, and Robyn with slowly dawning understanding.
“Prince?” he questioned, looking toward Pawldo for confirmation. “So I stole the purse of a prince!” The thief gave a rueful chuckle. “Luck of a she-camel,” he declared in disgust, spitting into the grass. “What do we do now?”
“Your luck will only get worse,” grunted Erian as he grabbed the Calishite by the scruff of his neck. Lifting the thief easily, the huge man roughly frisked his body.
“Here,” grunted the thief, awkwardly reaching into his boot. He tossed the pouch of coins to Tristan. “You’ll probably want these back,” and he gave that rueful chuckle again. Against his will, Tristan felt himself liking the bravado of the young thief.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“My name is Daryth—of Calimshan.”
“Come along, now!” ordered Erian, forcefully pushing the thief forward. “Let’s see what the king has to say about this.” Daryth stumbled, and the surly guard cuffed his head.
Robyn tugged at the prince’s arm as the guard led the thief away. “If Erian takes him to the king,” she whispered, “he’ll be executed for certain!” Her eyes were wide with concern.
Tristan looked at the departing thief, and once again felt that strange pang of jealousy. Still, he had his purse back and the incident was over; it was not enough to warrant a death sentence.
“Come on,” he grunted. “I don’t know what good it’ll do, but we might as well go along with them.” He was glad he had said it when Robyn squeezed his hand in gratitude.
Black waters swirled and parted, and the form of the Beast rose from the still coolness of the Darkwell. Massive and tight-knit trailing vines crowded close, but the broad, scaly body thrust the interfering plants aside like blades of grass.
Kazgoroth moved slowly, reveling in this new freedom. Yet the Darkwell had served its purpose, for the monster felt power coursing hotly through its body as never before in its long centuries of existence.
The goddess—the Beast’s ancient enemy—must be vulnerable. The Beast allowed a trickle of acidic saliva to drool from its widespread jaws, Turning its hot, fiery eyes to the pool, it watched the thick waters of the Darkwell bubble in its wake.
Pulling its feet from the sucking mud, the creature pushed its way into the fens. Tree trunks snapped like brittle twigs as broad shoulders pushed them from its path. A heavy, clawed foot squashed flowers, insects, and rodents with equal lack of note. The sounds of cracking limbs, crushed vegetation, and sticky mud slurping with each mighty footfall shot violently through the wood. Wildlife shrank from the path of the Beast, racing in terror or cowering in abject fear until the monster passed.
As the Beast walked, the Firbolg were called to serve their ancient master—and serve it, they did.
Those misshapen giants—cousins of the Beast itself—ran fearfully at its approach. It took considerable coaxing, and a certain amount of potent enchantment, before the Beast could draw the chief of the Firbolgs to itself.
The ugly giant cringed in fear. His bulbous nose covered with sweat, the Firbolg scratched nervously at a wart, and bobbed his head in mute understanding.
The Firbolg were the first spawn of the Beast, brought by Kazgoroth to the Isles of Moonshae in the dim recesses of the past. Pulling the ancestors of the Firbolg from the sea, the Beast had taken them to Myrlock Vale. Here they lived in isolation, becoming sullen, bored, and lazy.
Emerging eventually from the muck and mire of the fens, the Beast roamed through wilderness for many days. Finally, the monster passed from the wilderness into farmland, and soon came upon a herd of cattle, sheltering in a remote glen.
The fat cows made a fine feast. Blood-spattered jaws gaping, the Beast again moved, this time cautiously. It knew instinctively that it neared the realms of men. The Beast felt no fear, but preferred to avoid detection for as long as possible.
Its mind grew sharper with the fresh blood of its kill and the lifegiving oxygen of the spring air flowing through the giant body. The monster realized that its present shape was the wrong one for the Task. What form should the new body take?
Kazgoroth recalled its bovine feast, and was pleased. Slowly, its scaly shoulders shrank, and its lizardlike head shifted into a broad snout. Horns sprouted, and claws and scaly legs became hooves and knobby legs supporting the wide, hairy body. Soon, Kazgoroth concealed itself in the body of a huge bull. The glittering redness of the Beast’s eyes seemed to fit the new guise naturally.
And the change was timely, for the monster now felt a disturbance. Humans! Two of them, emerging from woods into the glen. A man and a woman, running to the carcasses of the herd, making strange, keening noises.
Kazgoroth liked this body. This was flesh of power and speed … killing flesh. The great head lowered, heavy horns swinging. The charge was swift, the deaths satisfying. The Beast reveled in the human blood, knowing that the slaying of lesser creatures could not compare to this sensual gratification.
The great bull moved majestically from the glen, following a wide track toward the setting sun. The monster knew, without understanding, that it would find many more people in that direction.
As the twilight faded to night, the Beast saw many people quickly shuttering windows, and saw others run in fear at its approach. The crude brain, becoming more adept with each passing second, realized that the body of the bull would attract too much attention from humans in these settled reaches. Something more subtle was necessary.
The monster recalled its human victims. One, the female, had a body that was rounded, and supple, and strangely pleasing. A body that would blend well here. Deep in shadow, the creature again shifted, gradually rising and walking on two smooth, shapely legs. Arms and a face, soft and white, adorned the rounded torso.
This type of body would serve admirably. Instinct guided the monster to make several alterations. Hair, the color of ripe wheat, spilled down its back. Teeth straightened, and the small nose tilted slightly toward the sky. The body became slimmer at the waist and thighs, but other places the Beast kept plump and rounded.
Clothing, the Beast perceived, would be necessary for the disguise to be complete. The night grew darker, and Kazgoroth slipped silently into a small building, where it sensed many humans were asleep. The necessary garments lay within a large trunk. For a moment, Kazgoroth considered with longing the fresh blood coursing through the bodies of the sleeping humans. Caution prevailed and the monster left, allowing these humans to live.
Dawn colored the sky as Kazgoroth again moved west. Now the chill reflection of the sea came into sight, stretching away to the horizon and beyond. But the monster’s goal was much closer than the horizon, or even the sea.
Before the waters stood a small castle, and Kazgoroth knew that humans in abundance would lair here. Before the castle spread broad fields, covered with tents and banners and stirring with activity and life. To this field, Kazgoroth moved.
Enjoying flexing his muscle at his prisoner’s expense, Erian firmly propelled the thief toward the castle. Although a capable man-at-arms, the huge fighter had little patience for peacetime, and obviously relished the opportunity for violence. Robyn and Tristan walked behind Erian and his prisoner, who still retained his sense of good cheer. They started up the paved roadway leading to the castle’s gatehouse.
Caer Corwell loomed above the festival, and the town and harbor of Corwell, from high upon a rocky knoll. The castle’s outer wall—a high, timber palisade—ran along the circumference of the knoll, broken only by the high stone edifice of the gatehouse. The top of the knoll was mainly devoted to the courtyard but the tops of some castle buildings, particularly the three towers of the keep, jutted above the spiked parapet.
The broad parapet of the tallest of the three towers was visible as the highest point for miles in all directions. Fluttering boldly from this platform streamed the black banner emblazoned with the silver bear—the Great Bear of the Kendricks.
If the three Ffolk moving up the castle road had been less familiar with the sight, they might have marveled at the panorama opening around them as they climbed higher. The commonsfield, sparkling with the colorful tents and banners of the festival, immediately caught the eye, its commotion contrasting with the calm, blue waters of Corwell Firth stretching off to the west. In the center of the commonsfield, the green and pastoral circle of the Druid’s Grove remained pristine, dignified and natural.
The village of Corwell lay next to the firth on the far side of the festival grounds. Made up mainly of small wooden cottages and shops, the little community was nearly empty now, as the villagers were all at the festival. A low wall, more a symbol of a border than a real bastion of defense, surrounded the village on three sides. The wooden docks of the waterfront created the fourth side.
These docks reached into a placid circle of blue, formed by a high stone breakwater. Within the circle were anchored the dozens of vessels of the Corwellian fisherffolk, as well as the larger vessels of the visiting traders.
The little party neared the castle, their steps slowing from the steepness of the climb. The castle road spiraled around the steep knoll, making a long curve to the gatehouse. To the walkers’ left, the side of the knoll itself dropped rapidly to the commonsfield below. To their right, the same slope rose steeply to the base of the wooden palisade.
Robyn finally broke the awkward silence among the four. She fell in step with the thief, caught his eye, and, with a bold smile, spoke.
“I’m Robyn, and this is Tristan.”
Daryth looked at the prince quizzically. “Your … sister?” he asked, indicating Robyn.
“No. Robyn was raised as my father’s ward,” explained Tristan, suddenly eager to clarify the relationship. He remembered, momentarily, how annoyed he had been at the way Robyn had looked at the thief after the fight. She was looking at him that way again, something more than curiosity in her eyes.
“The pleasure is all mine,” offered the thief. “I’m afraid circumstances prevent me from—urf!” Erian gave a sharp tug to Daryth’s cloak, cutting him off in mid-sentence.
“Not so rough, Erian,” Tristan told the guard. “He offers no resistance.” Erian almost sneered at the prince, but settled for turning his back in disgust.
