Prophet of Moonshae
( The Druidhome trilogy - 1 )
Douglas Niles
Douglas Niles
Prophet of Moonshae
Prologue
The dragon was very old and very evil. For centuries he had dwelled on the fringes of the Realms, preying across continents and oceans, passing countless decades of rapacious existence. No longer could he remember all the villages he had ravaged, all the damsels devoured.
Great knights rode against him, as often as not perishing within their plate armor from the heat of the creature's fiery breath. Those who survived the killing fireball succumbed to jaws studded with scimitar-like teeth or claws that could rend a war-horse with ease.
And when the knights failed, the wizards came to slay him. But the shrewd wyrm met them, spell for spell, with fire and ice-and dark, pernicious magic of even greater scope. Wrapped within a protective cocoon of sorcery, the serpent deflected lightning bolts back at their casters, sneered at spells that meant certain death to lesser creatures, and then spewed a seething, hellish cloud of infernal flame at the few surviving mages who dared persevere.
But ultimately, after more than a millennia and a half of monstrously evil existence, the great dragon confronted an enemy he could not defeat in battle nor deflect with sorcery-the measured passage of time itself. The massive eyes, with their cruel, slitted pupils, began to cloud. Muscles and joints, though still knotted with awesome and deadly power, grew stiff, supple movement impeded by the effects of dampness and chill.
Within his mountain, curled upon a vast pile of treasure, the dragon, called Gotha by those of his slaves and captives who had lived long enough to converse with their lord, pondered. A hateful life lay in the wyrm's wake, and all that hatred coalesced now into something made even more vile and spiteful by the crippling effects of age. Shrieking suddenly, unable to contain his rage, the monster lurched to his feet. Dripping, fanged jaws gaped, and the hissing roar of a fireball exploded inside the lair, searing dampness from the walls and incinerating a small mound of priceless antiquities.
Smoke wafted through the enclosed air as the dragon's hooded lids sheltered his eyes. Gold, from statues and coins, flowed from the treasure in liquid streams, melted by the infernal blast to finally collect in heavy pools on the rough, stone floor.
Ancient one. .
The dragon froze, startled as a disembodied speaker projected a message into Gotha's mind. He immediately recognized the voice as belonging to a god. Though he didn't know the identity of the deity, it could only be one of most sinister chaos and evil, else it would have no business with Gotha.
"Speak to me," said the serpent in a deep, rasping voice. Settling back, catlike, onto its trove, the creature waited.
I am Talos, the Destroyer.
"A god of evil and violence."
A god of ultimate destruction-and one who has observed you for many, many seasons. Though you have not labored in my name, your works have added mightily to the workings of chaos.
The dragon said nothing. The facts spoke for themselves.
I speak to you now because I have something to offer- something you desire very much.
Gotha pondered, puffing a blast of smoke to screen his sudden anxiety. The monster knew of Talos the Destroyer, also called the Raging One. He was a god who used the destructive force of storms to lash the world-lightning, tornadoes, cyclones, blizzards-for no other purpose than his own vicious whim. Talos was a god of vengeance and evil, not to be trusted, but he was also powerful-very powerful indeed. And he offered something the dragon desired, and that could be only one thing.
"Continue," the dragon said, holding his deep voice steady.
Swear yourself to me, and you shall never die. Your power, already awe-inspiring, shall rise to heights you have not imagined. The centuries, the ages shall pass, and you shall remain.
"Swearing what in return?"
You will perform a task for me, a task of violence and destruction.
"What is the task?"
I cannot say, for I do not know. It may not occur for hundreds, perhaps thousands of years. After you swear, I shall call you when the need becomes apparent.
"Your powers shall preserve and prolong my life?" Intrigued in spite of himself, the dragon crept forward, raising his sinuous neck as if the presence of the god shared the lair with the serpent.
You shall not die.
Gotha was an intelligent creature and had proven to be a shrewd negotiator during those rare previous instances in his life when dialogue had seemed advantageous. Under normal circumstances, he would undoubtedly have noticed that the god did not, in fact, reply affirmatively to the serpent's question.
But the situation had tempted the ancient creature beyond his natural caution, for the inevitable onset of decay and, ultimately, death terrified the wyrm such as nothing ever had. And now, through the intervention of a god, a greater power of the Realms, even that final disaster might be overcome.
"I accept. I shall swear to perform a task for you when you summon me. I commend myself to your power!"
Excellent. You must now fly to the great north, to an ice cave that you will find there, for I shall guide you. There you shall be granted that which you desire.
The serpent slithered from the trove, creeping through the long network of caves that honeycombed the mountain lair, and finally burst into the night air. Under a nearly full moon, Gotha soared to the north, crossing the desert of the Endless Waste, cresting the jagged teeth of the Icerim Mountains, and finally soaring across a seemingly limitless expanse of ice and snow.
Directed by the persistent images of the god, the wyrm settled to the snow beneath a gaping chasm in the face of a glacier. Creeping inside, the monster pressed ever deeper, seeking that to which the god directed him.
That god, Gotha noticed idly, now seemed to be strangely absent.
The collapse of the cavern roof came suddenly, with no warning. Millions of tons of ice crushed downward, smashing the monster to the floor, pinning the scaled flesh, crushing bones, pulverizing the immensely powerful wings, compressing the dragon into a brutally mangled form. The thunderous avalanche continued for many seconds, and when eventually the ice settled, there was no sign of movement in the vast chamber.
But the god had spoken the truth, for the dragon did not die. Instead, the serpent lay there, alive, hateful, and trapped. Years passed into decades, and decades into centuries, until more than two hundred years had elapsed, and still the dragon did not die. Constant pain wracked his great, immobile body, and a mind that had always flourished upon evil now learned even greater depths of loathing.
Time became a doleful march. Corrupted by the fiendish influence of Talos, the monster became a twisted and horrifying image of himself. Gotha's body remained frozen in its crushed shape, but his nerves grew taut with fury. Still alert, he felt pain even through the numbing chill. Gradually his life evolved-and if he did not die, neither did he remain fully alive.
The dragon became a dracolich, an undead creature of base, unadulterated evil. Frozen, the flesh did not rot from his bones, nor did the leather folds tear from his massive wings. His eyes shrunk and shriveled, but in the two sockets, as large as bushel baskets, two spots of hateful crimson grew, developing into a terrifying mirror of the creature's life.
And then, after two hundred and thirty-seven years of decay and imprisonment, Gotha once again heard the voice of Talos.
The dracolich learned that it was time to perform his task.
1
The Prophet
The old man pressed through the underbrush, unaware of the thorns, the slashing branches, and the thick, wet foliage. Rain drove into his face-it always rained these
days-and he bared his teeth, relishing the force of the weather.
Overhead, the full moon reigned in the night, but no clue showed on the land below. Heavy clouds blanketed the land, and the lashing rain further masked visibility.
Indeed, the storm masked more than this locale. For a distance of more than a hundred miles to the north and the south, the entire island of Alaron suffered the drenching of downpour and the cruel scouring of wind. And beyond this great island, the rest of the Moonshaes quaked amid blackened seas and the raging press of the heavens. Hail and lightning, floods and stark, killing cold alternated in their onslaughts, but never did they cease entirely.
The figure now pushing through the bramble looked upward, his face split by a grin of exultation. His eyes shined whitely, even in the darkness, and if they didn't seem to focus clearly, neither were they blind. The darkness did not impair him. Indeed, the man wrapped it around himself like a protective cloak that insured his safe and undetected passage.
In the distance, hounds wailed. Whether the full-throated cries honored the unseen full moon or heralded the presence of this strange figure in the brush did not matter. As the old man pushed forward, the baying increased in frenzy until a harsh voice commanded the dogs to silence.
Finally the figure broke free of the brambles to stumble onto an open lawn of grass. Flaring lanterns of golden light sparkled across a wide courtyard before him. They hissed and sputtered beside a great oaken door, casting a yellow wash that outlined the metal-shirted figures of two brawny men-at-arms.
Around the door towered a great manor house of stone, with a high, peaked roof that vanished in the darkness overhead and long, dark beams framing the outline of the walls and windows of its three great wings. Blackness swallowed sprawling gardens to either side, as well as the stables and kennels and other outbuildings.
The storm swallowed the sounds of the old man's passage-,concealing it, at least, from the guards, though the hounds once again took up their howl. Now, however, the figure raised his head to stare at the doorway and the glaring lantern light reflected from his bright, widely set eyes.
The men-at-arms stiffened as they beheld those gleaming spots of light, like supernatural apparitions come to haunt them. They felt no relief when they realized the glow came from the eyes of the trespassing figure. A twenty-foot palisade of sharpened stakes surrounded the grounds and manor of Earl Blackstone of Fairheight, with a single gate that remained closed and guarded. There was no simple explanation for the presence of this bizarre and apparently maddened intruder.
"Who are you?" demanded one of the guards, reflexively lowering his long-shafted halberd. "What do you want?"
"How did you get here?" demanded the other, driving more directly to the point. The second guard drew his narrow long-sword and held the weapon at the ready.
"The power shall rise! You know your folly!" The voice pierced the gloom like the strike of lightning. Harsh and clear, it wasn't hysterical, but-also like lightning-it commanded attention. The guardsmen instinctively tightened their grips on their weapons, gaping at the stranger as he slowly advanced into the circle of illumination.
"Flee!" cried the old man, his voice rising. "Flee before it is too late!"
The shambling figure waved his arms over his head. His eyes darted madly, first at the door, then at the lanterns, and finally along the high wall overhead. He moved closer, into the full lamplight.
The stranger's bald crown glistened, soaked by the pounding rain. White hair encircled his scalp, a stringy fringe that covered his ears and straggled in mats onto his shoulders. A long beard of the same color as his hair, also soaked, framed his wide mouth. He wore a shabby robe of wool, with a belt of ratty rope. Toes jutted from ragged things-they had long since ceased to be boots-that covered each of his wet and muddy feet.
Around the corner of the great manor house, the barking of the hounds rose to a frenzy. The wooden gate of the kennel crashed under the repeated assaults of huge canine bodies. But it was the intruder's eyes that commanded the attention of the two watchman. They stared into those gleaming spots of light and knew they confronted a madman.
"Call the lord!" cried the halberdier, lowering his weapon protectively to block the door.
His companion wasted no time in hammering against the portal with his mailed fist. "Open up! Summon Earl Blackstone! Quickly!"
His voice nearly cracked. The guard was a steadfast fighter. He could have faced the charge of berserk northmen or the attack of a raging firbolg giant with steadfast courage. Yet this deranged man, with his matted beard and wild, staring eyes, disturbed him in a way that no merely physical threat could.
"How did you get past the wall?" demanded the other guard, the halberdier. Frantically the man wondered, Did we leave the gate unlatched? Had the guard fallen asleep? The palisade had no breaches, and the noble lord would tolerate no lapse in the vigilance of his guards.
The bearded man came closer, dragging his feet along the ground, practically stumbling with each step.
Abruptly the door swung open. The black-bearded figure standing there, strapping and unafraid, was not the lord of the manor-instead, it was Currag, Earl Blackstone's firstborn son.
"What's the commotion?" he demanded, his eyes immediately fixing upon the intruder.
"This fellow-he must have climbed the wall! He's talking crazy, ranting about doom and despair!" The halberdier's mind still raced. If a gate had been left unlocked, his own neck would be all but forfeit.
"Set the hounds on him," growled young Currag Blackstone, spitting toward the white-bearded man.
The guards blanched. The Blackstone moorhounds numbered nearly two dozen. Huge and savage creatures, they were kept hungry by the handlers for just such eventualities.
"But he-he hasn't attacked," objected the swordsman. "He might be harmless, merely lost."
"You are doomed! Accept the power now, you who have forsworn the light! It is your only hope of survival!" The madman shook his head, and the white hair and beard bristled, casting droplets of water in a glittering ring around his face.
In that instant, a flash of lightning hissed across the sky, illuminating the courtyard and its surrounding woods. The shadow of the intruder stood out clearly, etched upon the ground for one brief moment.
"Get out of here, old man!" growled Currag, stepping between the guards. He advanced and shouted into the intruder's face. "Go now, or by the gods, the hounds will tear you to pieces!"
"Fool! Imbecile!"
Currag shoved the intruder, and the figure toppled backward to sit heavily in the mud. The young nobleman stalked to the corner of the great house, where the hounds shrilled and slavered. In one gesture, he pulled the latch from the cage door.
Huge, shaggy beasts surged outward, baying frantically. The moorhounds were huge dogs, their backs reaching the height of a man's waist. Long legs carried their muscular, powerful bodies with astonishing speed. The pack raced toward the white-haired man in full cry, fangs glistening in the darkness. Their vibrant howls rang throughout the yard, intermixed with low snarls as they neared their victim.
The white-bearded man climbed to his feet with a smoothness that belied bis apparent age. Then he stood strangely still. His eyes, for once sharp and well focused, fastened upon the face of the leading moorhound.
The lead moorhound, called Warlock by the Blackstones, was a splendid example of the breed. Tall and muscular, sleek sinew rippling beneath a shaggy coat, Warlock belled his outrage at this intrusion of his master's precinct. His powerful haunches flexed, driving his body, which was the color of rich, moist soil, through soaring, graceful bounds. His shoulders tensed, reaching forward and pulling the dog at a steadily increasing speed. Long, curved teeth gleamed like ivory beneath his snarling jaws as, frenzied and slavering, he leaped for the throat of the white-bearded man.
"Halt!" The intended target of the leap raised a hand.
To the astonishment of Currag and the two guards, Warlock's legs stiffened, and h
e came to an abrupt stop, dropping to sit attentively before the intruder. The rest of the pack immediately ceased their barking and howling. Ears raised curiously, the hounds stood in a semicircle and stared at the stranger.
"Seat yourselves, my creatures, my children!"
The dogs, in perfect unison, sat upon their haunches, still staring with rapt attention into those wide-set, gleaming eyes. Instead of bared fangs, the hounds' slack jaws now revealed long, pink tongues. The animals sat with ears pricked upward and eyes alert as they regarded the white-haired man.
"Kill him!" Currag, sputtering in outrage, commanded his hunters. When they didn't respond, he waded into the pack, kicking the hounds with his heavy boots. Suddenly he halted as Warlock turned and glared balefully at his master-his former master.
The nobleman took a step backward toward the safety of his two stalwart men. The dog watched him go silently.
"Flee!" The old man's voice, piercing and full, broke the spell.
With another rough bark, Warlock sprang past the intruder, the rest of the pack on his heels. They belled again, as if they followed the fresh spoor of a stag, or even a bear. In moments, the dogs vanished into the darkness, crashing into the same thicket from which the raving madman had emerged.
"There is hope for them! The children-yes, the children will be saved!"
His eyes closed, his face locked in an expression of fierce joy, the bearded man threw back his head, allowing the rain to wash across his cheeks and his chin. Grimacing from the strength of his rapture, the old man remained rigid, as if listening.
Currag stared in hatred at the intruder. He heard the dogs plunging away, knowing they would soon reach the palisade. The sound of the pack rose to a fevered pitch of excitement and frenzy. Then abruptly the sound faded. It could still be heard, but as though it came from much farther away.
"They've gone over the wall," said the halberdier, his voice full of wonder. Even a nimble man, they all knew, would need a rope to scale the twenty-foot palisade with its top of sharply pointed stakes. For a dog, it must certainly be impossible!
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