“How bad was it?” she asked, in a voice like the dull rasp of a saw.
“Many dwarves escaped—most, I think,” Danrak said. “Though they left the village in the hands of the attackers. When I last observed the brutes, the night before yesterday, they were engaged in a bit of victory celebration.”
“I can imagine,” growled Finellen. “We’d just poured the last three years’ vintage from their aging to their storage casks. I’d guess they would have found plenty of them. Any prisoners?”
“None that I saw,” Danrak replied. “And as I told you, many dwarves escaped with their lives—though not much more. I met a number of them in the woods.”
“Where are the dwarves now?”
“One of our order, Isolde, has taken them to various shelters in the Winterglen. They are safe there and have plenty of food and drink. Naturally they desire to return to their homes.”
“Why did I let myself get drawn away?” groaned Finellen, lowering her head dejectedly into her hands. “I take the best warriors in the village and go off on some wild-goose chase, while the real threat is right in our own back yards!”
“It wasn’t a wild-goose chase!” Hanrald interjected. “I saw that Elf-Eater, and if it had gotten out of Synnoria, you’d have desperately needed fair notice!”
“He’s right,” Brigit agreed, surprisingly sympathetic. “You were wise to examine the threat that menaced Synnoria, just as I have every intention now of finding out about this so-called ‘army’ of firbolgs and trolls.”
“Are the bastards still in Cambro?” inquired the dwarf, only the deadly gleam in her eyes revealing her grim determination.
“I don’t know. I was able to eavesdrop on some of their celebration. It seems that they plan to march north,” Danrak declared.
“Why, that’ll take them right into the Winterglen!” barked Finellen, perceiving the peril to the refugee dwarves.
The druid, however, raised a calming hand. “Your villagemates are well hidden—for the most part, in caves and the like. You don’t need to worry about them, even if the beasts march within a dozen feet. More to the point, why do they go north?”
“There’s nothing in their path except for a few tiny villages of Ffolk and northmen,” Brigit pictured, remembering Gwynneth’s geography. “Then they’ll reach the Strait of Oman.”
“Perhaps they want to go for a swim,” Hanrald suggested wryly.
“Whatever it is, they’ve got to be hunted down and destroyed. I’ve got fifty brave dwarves here who’ve got just the axes for the job!”
Hanrald looked at Brigit with a raised eyebrow. “As a loyal subject of my king, I’m duty-bound to find out what this is all about,” he declared.
“Better get some sleep, then,” warned Finellen. “We’ll be down the trail before first light.”
* * * * *
Deirdre rose from her bed during the darkest hours of the night, relieved to see that heavy clouds obscured the sliver of a moon. She went to her window, casting open the shutters to a scene of absolute black.
Her window faced away from the town, and not so much as a glimmer of lamplight disturbed the invisible blackness of the rolling moor. She stood there for a long time, letting the darkness wash over her.
It was easy to imagine the great void in which she had floated during her dreams. No stars gleamed through the overcast, and the distant expanse before her may as well have been an infinite cosmos. She listened for the voices of the gods.…
* * * * *
Talos and Helm circled warily amid the infinite cosmos, each prepared to smite the other with thunderbolt or cyclone, yet each at the moment more concerned with the intransigence of the earth goddess ruling a small and isolated group of islands.
And so to that common foe the two gods turned their schemes, though neither neglected to maintain a suspicious watch upon the other.
Still, against the Earthmother, their powers would be far greater than alone, for each could bring to bear his most powerful tool—and both tools could be made to serve the common end.
In the case of Helm, this asset was his most accomplished servant, the Exalted Inquisitor himself. For Talos, the living weapon was none other than the Princess Deirdre, with her secret and crystal-hard soul.
5
Old Campaigners’ Council
Garisa snored, each exhalation flapping lips and cheeks like sails teased by a vagrant breeze. The sound itself was lost amid the chorus of similar rumbles and snorts from the giant-kin and trolls who slumbered all around, blissfully unmindful of the mass hangover awaiting the army with the coming dawn. A soft wash of light blossomed beside the giantess as she clutched the Silverhaft Axe even in sleep, while the massive bonfire had once again settled into a small mountain of glowing coals. Otherwise the village lay in darkness.
Only one shape stirred among this gathering of humanoids—a tall form, casting a long, almost sticklike shadow in the fading light of the coals. Baatlrap crept silently, stepping across firbolg and troll alike with uncharacteristic care. His black eyes, as devoid of obvious feeling as any walleyed salmon’s, fixed unwaveringly on the gleaming blade.
Finally he crouched beside Garisa and carefully, moving no more than an inch at a time, tugged at the blade. Very slowly the axe moved out of her grip. Once the giantess snorted and stirred restlessly, and the hulking troll froze, talons poised above her neck. Then she settled again, and the gangly troll completed his surreptitious theft.
Clutching the weapon to his wiry chest, Baatlrap darted for the shelter of the surrounding forest, sprinting through the trees until he reached a point far removed from the village. Only then did he squat to the ground and examine his treasure.
A pattern of runes, indecipherable to the troll, danced across the broad blade. The surface was a mosaic of many diamonds, so masterfully cut that from the evidence of sight and touch, it might have been one flawless stone. The handle, of cold metal, was as smooth and shiny as silver, yet it seemed to possess an inner strength greater than any steel.
Yet beyond the physical beauty of the object, Baatlrap sensed a power in his hands that was deep and fundamental. He wondered if this was the power of Grond Peaksmasher, god of the firbolgs. Or could it be something more direct, more useful to the troll? In the dim recesses of his brain, he found images of dark thunderheads, leaden with storm and crackling with jagged bolts of lightning. In the destructive power of those storm clouds, he sensed his duty, his mission.
Slowly, deliberatly, the great troll took the axe in his right hand. Still squatting, he placed his left wrist on the ground and stretched his five long fingers before him. With a cruel grimace—or perhaps it was a bizarre smile of wicked ecstacy—he brought the blade down sharply, hissing at the pain that lanced through his hand and arm. Green blood spurted from five wounds, while the severed digits twitched mindlessly on the ground.
His face still locked in that twisted grin, Baatlrap awkwardly transferred the axe to his mutilated hand. Already fingers had begun to sprout from the bloody stumps, while the pieces on the ground continued to twitch and writhe. Sharply chopping, Baatlrap repeated the gesture with his right hand, only then dropping the axe and settling back to nurse the pain in his two mangled limbs. For more than an hour he sat thus, while his own pain abated and ten pieces of his flesh danced at his feet.
Finally he rose, hoisting the axe with hands once more whole. His steps, when he started walking, led him back toward the camp, where he planned to return the axe to Garisa and get some sleep himself. Behind him, moving soundlessly through the shadowy wood and following their new master to his destination, came a file of ten young, wiry trolls.
* * * * *
Persuading the firbolgs and trolls to leave the virtually bottomless wine cellars of Cambro was no easy task, but Thurgol and Garisa set to it with stubborn determination. Even then they wouldn’t have succeeded without the clear compulsion of Garisa’s foretelling and the concrete and visible reminder of their cause, as embodied by
the Silverhaft Axe.
Surprisingly, Baatlrap and the trolls proved remarkably enthusiastic. No sooner had Garisa hoisted the Silverhaft Axe to her shoulder and started toward the trail than the huge troll barked to his fellows and ordered them to fall in behind.
In fact, Baatlrap loped after the giantess with such a grimace on his gnarled features that Thurgol feared he would try to snatch the weapon out of Garisa’s hands. While the chieftain didn’t care who carried the artifact, he felt certain that the old hag would take exception, so he stepped into the troll’s path to block him. The massive creature seemed even larger than normal to the giant chieftain, somehow looming higher into the air, his posture quivering on the verge of outright menace. Finally Baatlrap’s tension relaxed. With a sneer at the diamond blade, the troll relaxed his pace, apparently content to follow a few steps behind Garisa.
They marched northward along the general course of Codsrun Creek, though the humanoid column remained miles to the east of that stream. Before them lay the only access to Myrloch Vale that did not require the traversing of a highland pass. Instead, the land remained generally flat, interspersed with forest and glade.
Thurgol did his best to force some sort of formation over his ragged mob. Ironically, the trolls were the easiest to control here. They had formed themselves into five companies of a dozen each. Baatlrap marched with three of these near the head of the column, his great, jagged-edged sword resting casually across his shoulder, while another dozen trolls brought up the rear. The fifth company scattered through the woods, serving as advance scouts and pickets along the flanks. For this duty, Thurgol admitted, the nimble trolls, with their almost tireless endurance, were far better suited than the lumbering giants.
The firbolgs Thurgol bunched mainly in the middle. A single-file column proved to be too ambitious, so he contented himself with various straggling groups keeping their comrades before and behind them in sight. A small group of firbolgs marched at the head of the column to provide advance warning of any potential trouble. The wolfdogs, several dozen of which accompanied the band on its march, coursed through the woods near this advance guard, frequently scaring up game and, whenever possible, running it down.
Garisa alone bore the Silverhaft Axe, carrying the weapon over her shoulder as if she were a young and swaggering warrior. The firbolg shaman wasn’t as spry as the males, but she marched along steadily, without a grumble or complaint. The glittering facets of the great diamond blade drew the giant-kin onward far more effectively than any command or persuasion could have done.
Before they left Cambro, the giantess had applied herself to a dark green piece of burlap, using a bone needle to emblazon her material with white thread. She had gruffly refused to answer Thurgol’s questions as to what she was making. Each night, beside a comfortable fire, she vigorously pressed her needle through the cloth.
It was several days after leaving Cambro that the rude army came to the first farmsteads. One of the point guards came lumbering back to Thurgol, panting with excitement.
“Humans! Houses! Cows!” he gasped, his meaty face flushing as he came to a skidding stop before his chieftain.
“Slow down! Where? How many? Did they see you?” demanded Thurgol, fingering his club in agitation.
“Up ahead—we not seen! Hide in bushes to watch. Some men plow in fields. One bangs a hammer against metal.”
“How many houses?” pressed the chieftain.
“Dunno. Maybe five or eight.”
“Good they didn’t see you,” he told the young giant, clapping him on the shoulder. Thurgol considered the options. Obviously they had passed from Myrloch Vale into the fringes of populated country. He knew that there weren’t any large towns in this part of Gwynneth, but he didn’t know how many villages they’d be likely to encounter. Since they hadn’t yet been discovered, it seemed logical to skirt this village and try to put off the initial encounter as long as possible. After all, their goal wasn’t to plunder and kill, but to cross the Strait of Oman and return the Silverhaft Axe to the Icepeak. It seemed sensible to delay their initial encounters with humankind for as long as possible. Yes, he decided firmly, this was a wise decision: They could circumvent this settlement by passing around it in the forest.
His self-congratulations were interrupted just then by shrill screams, terrified human voices raised in wails of ultimate horror. In the seconds that followed, the screaming voices ceased one by one, each abruptly silenced.
Bellowing inarticulately in his rage, Thurgol lumbered forward, quickly breaking into a plowed field. Before him, he saw the quaint wooden houses, surrounded by gardens and a few tall trees. Among the trees, large figures moved.
Trolls!
Most of the monsters were hunched over motionless figures on the ground, though a few raised bloodstained muzzles to regard the ranting firbolg charging toward them with impassive eyes.
At first glance, Thurgol counted a dozen of the brutes, and then he understood. The company of trolls that had ranged freely through the woods had come upon these humans and attacked, without waiting to report their discovery to Thurgol, or even Baatlrap.
“Good quick fight, huh?” grunted the latter as he loped up to Thurgol’s side. “Good eats.” Unlike the firbolgs, trolls commonly devoured the flesh of their human and demihuman victims.
But Thurgol was in no mood to debate differences in dietary etiquette. “Stupid fools! We don’t need war with humans—just to carry axe through here!”
Baatlrap stopped in his tracks. The shadowy spots of eyes, beneath the overhanging brows of knobby green skin, seemed to smolder at the firbolg chieftain. “We fight—and kill—when we find enemies!” he snarled.
Furiously Thurgol swung his club at the troll, but Baatlrap blocked the blow with his hands. The force of the attack shoved the monster back several steps, and Thurgol heard bones snap. But Baatlrap still faced the giant-kin boldly. The two creatures stood eye to eye, and for a moment, Thurgol trembled with an almost irresistible desire to savagely attack the arrogant troll.
He noticed that several more of the gangly predators had collected around the pair of them, however. A few firbolgs had followed him from the forest, but they were significantly outnumbered at the moment. Forcing his muscles to obey his will, Thurgol lowered his club.
The plaintive bleating of sheep came to the chieftain’s ears. Now the trolls butchered the farm animals! “Save cows and horses!” he shouted as a pair of trolls pursued a lumbering draft horse through the field. At least they could use some of the unfortunate creatures as beasts of burden, instead of killing them all and gaining far more fresh meat than they could possibly carry along.
With grudging satisfaction, he saw the two trolls seize the horse around the neck and drag the kicking creature toward the barn. At least he had some authority left.
Trying unsuccessfully to regard that small triumph as a victory, he turned his back on the scene of massacre and returned to his troops.
* * * * *
As soon as she reached the skies over the great lake, Robyn sensed that something was indeed wrong in Myrloch Vale. The High Queen soared almost effortlessly in the body of the great white hawk. Her eyes, keen beyond human conception, studied each leaf, each shady bower and rockbound grotto in the valley sprawled around her.
The vista below appeared to be as pristine, as vibrantly healthful, as she could have hoped. Crystalline lake waters glistened in the light of the sun, and even the dank fenlands lay beneath a dense blanket of verdure. Tall pines waved their crowns proudly in a fresh breeze, and in places where the forest opened into meadow, dazzling wildflowers gleamed like priceless gems in a carefully crafted setting.
Yet something intangible, invisible to sight and sound and even smell, lingered in the air around her, telling her that violence had indeed invaded this place. As distressing as the discovery itself was the knowledge that she had not realized this fact earlier, even though Corwell was but a short distance—as the goddess reckoned distance—f
rom this, the heartland of the Earthmother’s realm.
She dove, building up tremendous speed and skimming within a few feet of the water’s surface. Huge lake trout dove away from her shadow, but she ignored the prey, intent upon her mission. Nothing unnatural disturbed the waters, and soon she soared upward to crest the woodlands at the lake’s northern shore. For hours she swept across the vast wilderness, still tormented by her earlier sense of distress and even more agitated by the fact that she could not more specifically identify it.
The coming of darkness surprised her and finally drew her down to the earth, where she landed in a forest of shadow. Shifting her shape as she touched the ground, she stood once again as a human woman, feet planted firmly beneath her.
But more than merely human, she was a druid—a druid who stood upon the most sacred earth known to her faith. The land welcomed her, and she felt strongly the blessings of the goddess. Yet still the sense of danger lingered, though with no more precise indication than before.
Guiding herself by scent and touch more than sight, since the forest was nearly fully dark around her, she found several ripe apples. She had brought some aged cheese, but preferred to save that for an emergency. The druid made a pleasant supper of the fruit, and finally she curled in a grassy bower to sleep until dawn.
She awakened before then, however, sitting upright with a start. An irresistible feeling came over her, a feeling that she was not alone.
“Who is it?” she hissed into the darkness, sniffing the air and listening for any sound. She heard a faint fluttering sound, as of wings beating quickly in the air.
“I get to ask that! Who is it?” The squeaking voice brought a wave of relief washing over Robyn, even as she wanted to reach out and strangle a scrawny neck for the fright she had felt.
“Newt!” she cried with a laugh, giving up her irritation in an instant. “How did you find me?”
“How many white hawks do you think we have out here, anyway? And how many humans camping on a pile of Corwellian sharp cheese? Downwind, I could smell it from miles away! Say, that’s the aged one, isn’t it? I remember the taste … a nice bite, just a little aftertaste.…”
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