Darkwalker on Moonshae, page 9
The rider drew closer, and the companions saw that he was tall and very handsome. His black hair and beard were trimmed neatly. The scarlet cloak, as well as his blue tunic and black leggings, were of the finest silk, and the bow he carried was heavier and longer than any Tristan had ever seen.
The man’s face smiled from beneath a wide-brimmed hat. The brim of the hat sported several brightly colored feathers—one each to match the rider’s cape, tunic, and leggings. The garish costume looked strangely out of place in the wilderness of Llyrath Forest. Though travel-worn, the man’s clothing was clean. His demeanor, as he rode nearer, seemed friendly.
To complete the astonishing picture, a great black falcon swooped low over the rider, gliding in a circle about him. As the rider pulled up before Tristan, Robyn, and Pawldo, the falcon settled to his broad shoulder.
“Ho!” he cried, cheerfully. “ ’Twas a fight to make a stirring verse!” For the first time, Tristan noticed the smoothly curved harp slung over the man’s shoulder.
The rider leaped to the ground, startling the falcon into an abrupt flight, and bowed with a flourish. He glanced around the scene of the battle, his gray eyes seemingly absorbing every detail. Turning back, he spoke to the companions.
“Keren Donnell, bard of the harp, at your service.”
Tristan and Robyn exchanged a look of surprise at the name of the greatest bard among the Ffolk.
“I am Tristan Kendrick, Prince of Corwell. This is my father’s ward, Robyn, and our friend, Pawldo.” Pawldo nodded his head, studying the man’s bow with considerable interest, and Robyn curtseyed quickly.
The prince continued. “Thank you for your help—you saved our lives.”
“ ’Tis a delight to find I have aided a prince and a lady!” smiled the bard, shrugging off his accomplishment. “And it is always a pleasure to meet one of the small folk,” he added, bowing low to Pawldo.
“Your fame has preceded you, sir,” added Tristan. “It is an honor to meet the most famous bard among the kingdoms of the Ffolk! But what could bring you from the court of the High King to the wilds of Gwynneth?”
“Ah, Gwynneth—fairest of the Moonshaes, in my own opinion. Your island also holds a wealth of the Ffolk’s ancient history. Why, did you know that the Sword of Cymrych Hugh itself is rumored to be hidden somewhere on Gwynneth?”
“It is a fair place, indeed,” agreed the prince, “And no, I didn’t know that Cymrych Hugh’s sword was supposed to be here somewhere—though that is an intriguing thought, I’ll admit.” Cymrych Hugh, as every child of the Ffolk learned, was the hero who had first united their race under one rule. “Do you travel for your pleasure, then?”
“Alas, no—I’m here on the High King’s business. I journey to Caer Corwell. Am I correct in guessing that is your home?” Tristan and Robyn nodded.
“If my falcon, Sable, and I may be allowed to accompany you?” the bard raised his eyebrows.
“Of course!” Suddenly the prince remembered their surroundings. “But we are not out of danger!” Quickly he explained that there were more Firbolgs in the vicinity. Nervously, he glanced up at the summit of the pass, but as yet there was no sign of further attackers.
“Let’s see to your friend,” the bard said, nodding toward Daryth, who was beginning to stir. “And the other one?” Keren indicated Arlen’s body, lying in a pool of blood.
Tristan had not considered the problem, but knew instantly that he could not leave the old warrior’s body to the enemy. “We’ll have to strap him over one of the horses. He was the captain of my father’s guard, and a loyal soldier who died a warrior’s death. He shall be buried in Corwell, in the royal barrow.”
The bard helped Tristan secure the body over Arlen’s horse. At the same time, Robyn splashed cold water over Daryth’s face, and the Calishite slowly regained consciousness. Soon he climbed to his feet, but he could not move his left arm.
Daryth’s horse stood nearby, and Robyn, after strapping his arm with her scarf, helped him into the saddle. As Keren finished helping with Arlen’s body, he saw the Firbolg, helplessly entangled in the branches of the trees. The monster had given up struggling, but looked dumbly and suspiciously at the humans and halfling before him.
“How did that happen?” the bard asked, surprised.
“Robyn did it,” responded the prince, sounding surprised even to himself. “She told me that she doesn’t know how, but it happened when she cried out for him to stop.”
Keren turned and regarded Robyn with renewed interest, looking from the trapped Firbolg to the lass, and back again. Robyn just lowered her eyes and said nothing. Tristan inspected his hounds, two of which had fallen beneath the Firbolg’s club. The others seemed healthy, however, and milled around expectantly.
Preparations finished, Keren, Robyn, Pawldo, and Tristan mounted their horses, Tristan in front of Arlen’s body on the dead warrior’s horse. Just then, a thundering shout announced that a fresh band of Firbolgs had crested the pass. With bellows of rage, the monsters raced downhill. Several stopped to throw boulders which fell far short of the companions, who were speeding on their way.
“Too bad we didn’t have a chance to bring their heads with us,” called the bard to Tristan, referring to an old battle custom of some Ffolk clans. “They make splendid trophies, Firbolg heads!”
“Indeed,” replied Tristan, a little sickened at the thought.
Urging the steeds forward, with the hounds loping easily beside them, the little party moved down the valley as quickly as they safely could. Riding hard, they pulled slowly away from the lumbering Firbolgs, who soon dropped out of sight behind them.
“Could they have stopped?” asked Robyn, hopefully, glancing back.
“They might … I don’t know,” answered Tristan. Suddenly he desperately wanted his teacher’s advice and realized how much he would miss Arlen. “We can’t afford to find out,” he finally said, forcing himself to make the decision. “We must move on.”
Daryth moaned, slumping weakly on his horse. Tristan, wondering if the Calishite would survive the ride, thought they might stop … but would they all die in a Firbolg ambush? … Oh, why did Arlen have to die?
The questions brought a weight of misery onto the prince’s shoulders. To add to his depression, it soon began to rain.
The hours after dawn brought Ffolk bustling into the streets and fields of Corwell. Fishermen took their vessels from the little harbor with the dawn, and farmers busied themselves with a dozen chores. Even the craftsmen were about, tidying and puttering as they prepared for the day’s work.
A mile away, the halfling community of Lowhill slumbered on as the sun climbed toward the zenith.
Only in the late morning hours did a few stumbling, bleary-eyed halflings venture forth from their snug burrows. The halflings knew how to enjoy life, and getting up with the dawn was not recommended.
But finally the day brought its quotient of activity to Lowhill—today more than the usual.
Allian, a young maiden of fifty-two years, emerged from her burrow. She was alarmed to feel a sense of urgency running through the community. She saw her fellow halflings hastening to and fro, all looking very concerned. What could all the fuss be?
Halflings of all ages were bustling past the little door leading to her father’s burrow, all heading downhill toward the fringes of the community. Following sleepily along, Allian noticed that her people had gathered somberly around one burrow at the bottom of the hill.
As she skipped down the hill in an effort to keep up with the children and young men, Allian grew more and more concerned. The entrance to the burrow did not look right, did not look right at all.
Huge clumps of sod lay strewn about the entrance, and the maiden saw that something had dug furiously at the ground around the sturdy wooden door. That portal, she saw as she moved closer, had been splintered inward by some awful force. The entire tunnel leading into the burrow had been enlarged, excavated hurriedly by some unknown creature with tremendous digging power.
Forcing her way through the crowd that grew steadily thicker and more apprehensive, she looked inside the burrow, and could barely stifle a gasp of horror.
The formerly cozy den now lay in shambles. The neat and sturdy furniture had been smashed beyond recognition, the stove overturned, and all the dishes broken into thousands of pieces. But none of this compared to the horror in the middle of the den.
The bodies, two of Allian’s size, and two much smaller, had been gored beyond recognition. Each had been mutilated and torn by a creature of immense, and unbelievably savage, power.
Suppressing her cries no longer, Allian turned, sobbing, and ran from the burrow. Other halflings stood apart from the crowd, breathing heavily, faces ashen. Allian fell upon the ground and shivered. She tried to blank out thoughts of the nearby den, but her mind kept calling up images of huge, fanged creatures. They roared and growled in her head, and she could not drive them away.
Gray clouds and mist gave way to a steady rain as the companions came down from the highest reaches of Llyrath Forest. They pushed the horses hard, eager to put distance between themselves and the Firbolgs. They did not know if the monsters had pursued them beyond the valley, but neither could they risk stopping to find out.
Daryth rode silently, his jaws clenched. Robyn’s crude sling held his arm motionless, but the strain of riding had drained his face of color. Tristan knew that they would have to stop for the night, and he prayed fervently to the goddess that the Firbolgs would not follow them into the low country.
The rain alternated between pounding downpour and misting drizzle. Each mile the party covered seemed to drive the dampness deeper into flesh and bone. Robyn located a winding game trail, and the group moved along this in single file, with the woman in the lead. Pawldo followed, with Daryth and Tristan behind him, while the bard brought up the rear. The path twisted and turned among towering pines in a forest nearly devoid of underbrush where the trees themselves provided some protection from the downpour.
Tristan pulled his wool cloak tightly about him, and wore a fur cape over it, but even this combined insulation could not keep the cold at bay. Soon he began to shiver uncontrollably. Before him, he saw that Daryth seemed ready to fall from his horse. At the head of the small column, Robyn slumped miserably in her saddle, wracked by chills.
“We’ll have to stop,” the prince called over his shoulder to the bard. “If we don’t build a fire and warm up, I don’t think Daryth’ll make it through the night.”
“A wise observation,” agreed the bard. “Let us look for a suitable spot.”
The trail soon began to climb another of the interminable ridges that lined Llyrath Forest. The pines here grew in tight clusters, with patches of meadow between. In one of these open places, Tristan urged his horse up next to Robyn’s. The rain had lightened again to a mere mist in the air.
“Let’s stop and camp among these pines,” he suggested, and she nodded her head wearily. The prince had never seen her look so hopeless and miserable, and a great shaft of guilt pierced him.
“I … I’m sorry,” said the prince. “I got us into this mess. And I thought following the Firbolgs would be such a great adventure!”
“It’s not your fault,” said Robyn, sighing. She looked at the motionless body behind Tristan, and her mouth tightened. “We all wanted to go—except Arlen. We are all responsible for the consequences.”
She looked up, making a visible effort to shake off her despondency. “Where are we going to camp? I hope it’s someplace close.”
“Wait here with the others,” Tristan said. “And I’ll find a place where we can rest in some security.”
Relieved to think about something other than Arlen, the prince cantered away from the path to investigate several of the dense patches of pine. He soon found one that was secure from outside view, and contained a large dry area where a soft bed of needles was sheltered from the rain by thick overhanging branches. The rest of the party joined him, and Robyn immediately built a small, smokeless fire. Tristan, meanwhile, rode back over their prints with a sweep made from a thick pine bough. In a few minutes he had erased all sign of their passage, creating the impression that they had continued on up the main trail.
The shelter proved as warm and dry as they could have hoped. They took turns on guard, but there had been no sign of pursuing Firbolgs by the time the gray dawn arrived. Daryth shook with fever and moaned in delirium. They tied him to the saddle and rode on in the cold. The only bright spot was that there continued to be no sign of their enemy behind them.
“They’re probably not bold enough to venture into the lowlands,” commented Keren. “Even if they are roving—and I fear our halfling friend may be right about that—they will not approach too closely to human settlements in such a small band.”
“I hope you’re right,” replied Tristan. As it was, Daryth’s chances of living through the journey to Caer Corwell were slender. If they should have to fight, those chances would be zero.
Toward the end of this day of travel, the party reached a small woodsman’s cottage. The homestead lay within a sheltered vale, beside a pleasantly bubbling stream. An assortment of skins covered a rack outside the home, and a small, empty corral stood forlornly beside a dilapidated shed.
“Who are you?” The voice was sour and suspicious.
The speaker stood at the corner of the cottage. He was a middle-aged, work-worn man, dressed in simple clothes. A long-hafted woodsman’s axe rested on his shoulder—it looked as if he could swing it into a ready position with a simple flick of his wrist.
The door to the cottage creaked open, and the prince saw a dim shape inside. More clearly, however, he saw a stout crossbow extend through the portal, with a bolt aimed straight at his heart.
“Who are you?” asked the woodsman again.
“I am Tristan Kendrick, Prince of Corwell,” said Tristan, swinging boldly to the ground. He flinched as he saw the crossbow quiver slightly, but the bolt did not fly. “We have a wounded companion—he needs shelter and warmth.”
The woodsman’s attitude was already relaxing. “Yes, of course. I have seen you before, my prince. Please forgive my suspicions—these are dangerous times in Llyrath.”
Giving a slight bob, he added, “Won’t you come in?”
The cottage door swung open, and the crossbow emerged, followed by a wide-eyed lad of twelve or so. A stout woman bustled out after the boy and hurried to Daryth’s horse, where Robyn was already helping the Calishite from the saddle.
“Quickly!” the woman urged, her plump face wrinkling in concern. “Poor lad! Let’s get him inside.”
Gratefully, the others followed the family into the warm cottage. For the first time in two days, the companions were able to drive the dampness from their clothing and bodies.
“I am Keegan of Dynnwall,” announced their host as they entered the little home. “This is Enid, and my son—Evan. Lad, run out and tend to their horses! Be quick, now!”
Evan, still gaping at the visitors, turned and ran toward the horses. The rest of them carried Daryth carefully to the single, large bed. The Calishite had become completely delirious, and the fever seemed to burn him away.
Leaving Daryth to the women, Tristan took advantage of the shelter, and the woodsman’s supplies, to wrap Arlen’s body more securely. The flesh, clammy and lifeless, seemed to bear little resemblance to the man who had taught and tutored the prince throughout his life. Tristan prepared the body as for a funeral, certain that his father would have such a ceremony when they arrived home. Wistfully, he recalled his old teacher’s gruff advice. His compliments had been few, but he had never despaired of Tristan’s ability to learn and even excel.
The man had died a warrior’s death! And such, among the Ffolk, was the finest way a man could die—at least, this is what the prince had always assumed. This assumption now felt very hollow.
Tristan entered the cottage after dark, welcoming the smells of spices and warm smoke that met him as he passed through the door. Keegan and his family offered every comfort their simple home could supply. After a plain but filling dinner and several glasses of the woodsman’s own wine, the company relaxed in the first real comfort they had known in days. Only Daryth’s weakened condition, and the unknown threats that might lurk in the forest beyond the sturdy door, prevented the night from becoming a completely pleasant one.
“Your companions tell us that you are Keren Donnell,” said the woodsman hesitantly after the meal. “Could … could we beseech you to play for us?”
“I’d be delighted,” said the bard, rising and crossing to the jumble of supplies they had dropped inside the door. Keren pulled out his harp and as he strolled back to his chair, strummed a few chords, tuning his strings with tender care. Then he began to play.
The Song of the Earthmother floated through the cottage. The words told of the goddess in all her glory, and how she had grown from the balance of good and evil in the world. She and her worshipers knew that neither good nor evil, in a pure sense, would benefit the world. Thus, the goddess was devoted to preserving the Balance.
The song then told of the druids, who were the human children of the goddess. The duties of the druids included preserving the sanctity of her wild places from the depredations of the rest of humankind. They insured that the Balance of the wilderness remained intact—that creatures were born, and died, in a manner pleasing to the goddess.
But the goddess also had other, even mightier children, and the song next told of these, one at a time.
First came verses about the great unicorn, Kamerynn, who dwelt in Myrloch Vale. A creature of enchantment and power, the unicorn was an unnatural animal, incapable of reproduction. Yet, as the king of the forest, it guarded and protected creatures of the woodland that even the druids did not know.
