Doric narrowed her eyes and gazed coolly at him. He sensed, with disappointment, that the charm spell he had used to beguile her earlier had worn off. Still, she did not look unhappy.
“You don’t have that power to offer, yet,” she said, with a trace of a sneer. “But perhaps my desires are not so different from yours.” She came easily into his arms, and the heat of her body was like a furnace.
Their mission could wait.
“It’s not the grandest place on the isles, but we like it here,’ said Hugh O’Roarke modestly, gesturing into the deep valley before them.
“I don’t understand,” said Tristan. “Where’s Doncastle?”
“Right there,” grinned the bandit, pointing to the center of the valley. Tristan saw an expanse of green treetops, covering the entire valley floor except for the course of a bright and winding riverway that meandered through the forest.
O’Roarke had claimed that his town was large—and that it lay in the heart of this deep, forested valley. Yet there was no sign of anything but energetic nature.
“In fact, many of our houses are in the treetops,” boasted the bandit chief.
“I’ve never heard of dwellings in the trees before. Isn’t it a little inconvenient?” asked the prince.
“Perhaps inconvenient when staggering home from a night at the tavern, yes, but we find it very convenient when the troops of the king come to attack.”
“You have stood against the army of the High King?” asked Pontswain, surprised.
“Certainly! His legions swarmed from the woods, but we were ready. The battle was a slaughter—for the king’s troops! He has never bothered us again!”
Something about the bandit’s bravado sounded empty, and the prince doubted he was telling the whole truth—at least, the unexaggerated truth. He wondered if the bandits had fought more than a small detachment.
“Legions, eh?” said Pontswain, echoing Tristan’s doubts.
Hugh scowled, but then shrugged. He didn’t say anything else, and Tristan didn’t want to risk antagonizing their host any further. Instead, he surveyed the countryside as they neared the outskirts of Doncastle.
They rode along an open path that wound through a green-domed forest of towering oaks. All of the undergrowth between the trees had been cleared, creating a woods of quiet beauty and easy travel. Only when he looked closely did the prince see that a hundred yards off the path on either side the underbrush not only had not been removed, but it had been encouraged to grow into a high tangle of impenetrable branches, Anyone approaching the city would be nearly compelled to do so through the wide corridor.
“The Swanmay River,” said the bandit, pointing to the placid waterway as they rode along its bank for a short distance. Expanding circles of ripples marked the surface where trout rose to strike at careless flies. The path twisted away from the river, back into the forest. “And this is Druid’s Gate.”
Tristan suddenly noticed that there were dwellings among the trees here. He saw a plank wall and several vine-covered roofs. Smoke emerged from several stumps, and he realized that these were cleverly disguised chimneys. Now he saw numerous round houses, roofed over with grassy sod. He also saw buildings of wood, built against the trunks of the oaks. So cleverly were they shaped that, at a distance, they looked like part of the tree itself.
Before he knew it they were in the town, yet the place still felt like a wilderness. Tristan saw people moving about on the ground, dressed in leather or simple woolen garments. Some of them looked at the travelers, nodding to Hugh without speaking. He saw few women and children, though somewhere he heard a baby crying. It felt as though he had entered any normal, if slightly impoverished, community of the Ffolk.
When he looked up he saw large shapes in the trees and long limbs extending throughout the canopy. He realized that these were bridges and that they connected many of the trees to each other.
Hugh led them to a clump of white aspens. The silvery leaves shimmered in a light breeze, and the trunks grew so close together that a small man would have had difficulty moving through the wood.
“The stables,” announced Hugh, turning to the prince.
Several of the aspen trunks suddenly moved to the side, startling them. They saw that the trunks were actually lashed together to form a gate, though they looked like living, rooted trees. Beyond, the companions could see into the cleverly disguised corral. A man, dressed as the other bandits in brown and green leather, held the gate while Hugh’s horse and the six steeds of the companions were herded inside.
“We must remain ever alert,” proclaimed O’Roarke. “We never know when an attack will come again.”
“Why does the king attack you?” asked the prince.
“You mean, of course, why am I a bandit here in the forest?” Hugh snapped. Tristan shrugged.
“I was not always. Once, I was a lord—a loyal lord—of Callidyrr. My holdings were not great but prosperous enough. But the king decided my lands could be better administrated by one of his lackeys, a fellow his wizard had brought to him, I believe. He took my lands, my family—everything. It was only good fortune that I was out hunting at the time and did not fall into his net.
“I returned to find the king’s troops in my house, and to learn that he had declared me an outlaw. My sister had been taken to Caer Callidyrr—I do not know even now if she is still alive—and I had no one else to care for but myself.
“If the king would brand me an outlaw, I decided that an outlaw I would be. So here I am.”
“How many lords has the king forced from their lands?” asked Tristan.
“Who knows?” shrugged Hugh. “Some have just disappeared; others have been murdered in the night. It is said that his assassins range across all the lands of the Ffolk, not just on Callidyrr.”
“I have heard … about that too,” said the prince. Then he decided to say more. Perhaps O’Roarke, in his apparent desire for vengeance, would help them.
“That is what brings us to Callidyrr. We seek to challenge the king and demand an explanation for what he has done!”
“You’ll never get it,” said Hugh. “The assassins are not the worst of the king’s defenses.”
“What do you mean?” said Pawldo, alarmed.
“Seven wizards have sworn loyalty to him. The mightiest of them, Cyndre, is a sorcerer with awesome powers.”
“Nevertheless, we intend to try,” said the prince.
O’Roarke looked at him with a strange intensity. Tristan could not read the emotions in the man’s inscrutable face.
“Well,” said Hugh O’Roarke, sounding vaguely amused, “We shall see about that, won’t we?”
The gray wolves loped steadily through the long night. At last, panting and limping, they reached the stream that marked the border of the Great Druid’s grove. Wearily, they flopped to the grassy bank. First Genna, then Robyn, changed shape.
The young druid lay on her back, enjoying the cushion of the soft grass. She felt better; her weariness, and the pain in her paws and haunches, had vanished with the canine body.
“Come, girl, there is much to be done,” said Genna, quickly climbing to her feet. She stopped suddenly and turned to the younger woman.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “That was very brave of you. And you made the change more smoothly than any initiate I have ever taught. You have the capacity to do great work for the goddess—and I fear we shall need all of your strength now, and mine as well. Even then, I don’t know if we can prevail.”
Genna stepped into the stream and Robyn followed. She had to hurry to match her teacher’s purposeful stride.
“That man,” Robyn began. “Who, or what, was he? Why was he with the dead?”
“I don’t know who he is. He must be a cleric of some powerful and very evil god, judging by his might.”
“You mean that is his army?” Robyn suppressed a shudder.
“I think so. It was certainly his magic that dispelled my ring of fire. And he did tha
t very easily.”
“What can we do?” asked Robyn. She felt panic rising within her.
“Do? Why, my dear, we can fight!”
They emerged from the stream but did not waste time drying themselves off as they started into the grove. Robyn gasped in surprise as she saw a human figure standing beside one of the trees, but she relaxed when she realized it was another druid.
“Isolde, thank you,” said Genna, clasping her friend in a firm hug. “I need your help, very badly.”
“Of course, I came as soon as I got the message.” Isolde was a powerful druid who tended Winterglen, a grove at the northern fringe of the Vale.
She was tall and stern, with bright red hair that would not stay confined within her hood. “What is the emergency?”
“Come, I shall tell you as soon as we reach the Moonwell. How many of the others are here?”
“Perhaps eight or ten. I have been here for several hours, awaiting your return, so I am not certain. The wood sprite told me that you had gone to the south.”
A small sparrow darted between them and settled to the ground. It quickly grew into a man wearing a plain brown robe like Isolde’s.
“Waine, come with us please,” said the Great Druid, not even pausing as the man fell into step beside them.
Robyn held back, slightly awestruck at the gathering of these mighty druids. The youngest of her order, she had never attended a druidic council before.
Genna led them between the vast stone arches that ringed the Moonwell, and here they found ten more of the druids, waiting patiently for their leader. Genna strode to the edge of the pool. There the milky glow from the sacred water illuminated her, even in the brightness of the morning sun. Each druid turned to the well and bowed, whispering a soft prayer to the goddess.
Robyn expected to see a ritual, a dramatic affirmation of their faith, and a stirring evocation by Genna of the danger facing them. She was disappointed when her teacher, very hurriedly, told the druids of the army that marched upon them, emphasizing the imminence of the danger. With a final word of hope, she sent them off to the fringes of the grove to work on whatever preparations they could make before the attack.
Robyn used her power to raise tall hedges of thorns across the clearings and to entangle the branches of the trees and bushes wherever they grew close together. Newt and Yazilliclick kept a guard out for the approaching horror.
Finally the grove was surrounded, and Robyn returned to find that Genna had sent most of the animals away to the north. Only the wolves, foxes, badgers, weasels—the creatures with sharp teeth—remained, as well as several sturdy bucks and grizzled boars, and of course, Grunt.
Legions of hawks, owls, and blackbirds swarmed through the sky, flying to the south and circling loudly over the enemy force. Other druids arrived, soberly joining ranks with their leader. By the end of the day, all of the druids of Myrloch Vale—nearly three dozen strong—had arrived.
And as the day waned into evening, the circling flock of birds could be seen close to the south. Their cawing and squawking was clearly audible in the grove.
The army would be upon them that night.
Bhaal arose from his steaming lava bath, where he had been watching the drama unfold in Myrloch Vale. The god was pleased to see that Hobarth now carried the Heart of Kazgoroth.
Acidic drool hissed to the ground as the god contemplated the young druid surrounded by death. When Hobarth brought her to the Altar of Bhaal, her blood would provide sweet sustenance.
And, too, it would be another milestone in the effort to rid the Isles of the druids. As the power of the new gods gradually dominated the faith of the Ffolk, there would be great struggles for primacy. In effect, a new pantheon of gods would be created.
And Bhaal would sit at its head.
ere they c-come—they come!” Yazilliclick clutched his tiny bow, stringing one of his slender arrows nervously. “N-Newt, wake up!” He prodded the little dragon’s flank.
“Hello! Is it time to eat?” Newt lifted his head, blinking.
“N-no! We must tell Genna—tell Genna! They c-come!”
“Wait!” Newt peered with interest into the pre-dawn darkness. The sprite’s keen eyes had seen the approaching figures clearly, but the faerie dragon had to squint and stare. Finally, he saw several shambling figures clumping steadily through the forest. A continuous rustling of brush told him that many more followed.
“I have an idea!” he said. “Follow me. It’ll be great fun!” Blinking into invisibility, Newt bounced from their high limb and darted toward the undead army.
“N-no! Wait! Stop!” Yazilliclick whispered, but the dragon was out of earshot. The sprite’s tiny, pointed ears twitched in agitation. His two antennae wriggled miserably. But then he, too, blinked out of sight. He could see Newt’s outline ahead, and he frantically buzzed behind his reckless friend. The dragon came to rest on a broad bough. Yazilliclick, trembling in fear, landed beside him.
“N-Newt—let’s go! We have to tell—to tell Genna!”
“Look!” whispered the dragon.
A huge man loomed out of the darkness. Yazilliclick thought all humans were gross, ugly creatures, but even by those standards this man was exceptionally repulsive. Rolls of fat sagged around his neck, and several huge warts sprouted from his bulbous nose.
“Watch this!” said Newt, again bouncing into the air. This time he floated to the ground—right before the human!
Yazilliclick moaned softly and once again clutched his bow and arrows. He saw the man’s eyes blink, as if his trance had been broken. His gaze swept across the ground and suddenly focused upon Newt. The dragon was invisible, but somehow this man could see him.
“Now, spell!” cried the faerie dragon, willing his illusion onto the ground.
The sod ripped away, and blue flames flicked deep within the pit that was suddenly exposed. A ghostly hand reached upward to grab the man’s foot as he stepped forward off the edge of the pit.
But the foot landed upon solid ground, and the image of the pit quickly dimmed. Without slowing his pace, the huge figure marched right through the illusion. Unheeded, the magic waned.
Now the man pointed a finger at the annoyed faerie dragon. He chanted a word softly—the command to a spell that was definitely not a mere illusion.
But just as the magic flash exploded outward, the man cursed and twisted, plucking a tiny arrow from his shoulder. He snapped the missile like a matchstick, but the distraction had been sufficient. His bolt of magic sizzled into the darkness beyond Newt, striking one of the skeletons instead. The faerie dragon zoomed quickly upward as the skeleton exploded into a heap of crumpled bone.
“Did you see that?”. Newt complained. “He ignored it! He didn’t even slow down! Well, this time I’ll give him a spell that he can’t—ulp! Urf urf!”
Newt struggled to speak, but Yazilliclick’s grip upon his snout was too strong. The tiny faerie pulled the dragon behind him as he darted high into the sky, beating his wings frantically to carry them both away from this place.
Of course, Newt complained all the way back to the grove.
Thick hedges of thorns stood in high tangles around the edge of the grove. The druids had worked through the day, and most of the night, raising what barriers they could.
But now the dragon and the sprite had brought them word, and the time for preparations was past. In minutes, it would be time for battle.
“You all know, of course, to seek the cleric,” Genna said. “It will not be easy. I expect that he will hold back and allow his creatures to do his fighting. But if we can strike at him, we strike at the army’s head. Therein, I think, lies our only chance to stop them.
“Join me for a moment of prayer. The goddess shall be with us. May her strength carry us through this fight.”
“And give us victory,” thought Robyn.
The druids stood with Genna near the stream. Each of them had been given a portion of the grove to defend. Genna and Isolde, together with G
runt, would stand in the center. Others stood near, men like Ryder Greenleaf, who tended a grove on the western shore of Gwynneth, and Gadrric Deepglen, an old druid who still managed to watch over a region of canyons and cliffs at the northern fringe of Myrloch Vale, near the domain of the Northmen.
A young female druid, Eileen of Aspenheight, stood directly behind the Great Druid, ready to carry messages or otherwise come to the aid of her mistress. The rest of the druids, men and women nearly three dozen strong, stood to either side in a long line. Each of the druids would be aided by some of the larger animals—the wolves, boars, and stags that would give their lives for the cause of the goddess.
Robyn would fight beside Kamerynn, Newt, and Yazilliclick. Genna had assigned her to a post far from the center, where the fighting was not as likely to be furious, but she had begged her teacher to reconsider. Her mother’s staff, Robyn pointed out, gave her the capability to cast powerful spells—spells that might mean the difference between victory and defeat. Reluctantly, the Great Druid had acquiesced.
And so they waited. They would fight the undead army with earthmagic. When that was expended they would use sturdy clubs, sharp sickles, and even their bare hands. All of the druids were compelled by a single thought.
They must keep the desecrators from the Moonwell.
In the end, it was the boy who told the tale.
The old cleric had proved too stubborn, even for one of Razfallow’s skill. Finally, the man had died, but even as he did so his lips only opened to croak a prayer to his goddess.
The lad, however, proved much more susceptible to the assassin’s persuasive blade—particularly since he had watched his master die a death of unspeakable agony minutes earlier. A few quick nicks of the knife against the lad’s cheek, and he was eager to talk.
“And where did they go from here?” asked Kryphon.
“The forest!” gasped the lad, pointing to the north. “He gave them a map of Dernall Forest. They fled there!”
“Again!” Doric said breathlessly. She stood beside Kryphon, her eyes bright with excitement. “Again with the knife!” she urged.
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