The Druid Queen Read online

  Slowly, with careful, deliberate rhythm, Garisa shuffled her feet. Raising a knotty fist, in which she clasped a worn rope, she shook the line, causing the clattering of tiny bells to jangle in time with her dance.

  Firbolgs and trolls alike followed with their eyes the giantess through her ritual, carefully formalized steps. Then abruptly she spun through a full circle, in a whirl of jangling bells and cackling laughter. Stepping rapidly, she returned to her original place beside the fire, once again fixing her fellow villagers with a gaze of mystery and raw suspense. The fact that they had heard the coming story many times before did nothing to mellow the tension. If anything, it brought the giant-kin to an even higher pitch of readiness.

  “In the days before humans,” Garisa began, her tone singing, the rhythm of her speech retaining its careful tempo, “there came the greatest giant of them all to an island in the Trackless Sea.”

  “Grond—Grond Peaksmasher!” The chanted response rumbled from every firbolg throat like imminent thunder from the growing darkness.

  “Grond saw that this land was good. In the shelter of its reefs, he beheld the gleaming image of the full moon, and he called his place Moonshae.”

  “Grond—Grond Peaksmasher!”

  “He took his mighty blade—the blade that had carried him through legions of elves, against swarms of dragons and pestilential creatures of hideous evil—he took his blade and he carved for himself a home on Moonshae.”

  “Grond—Grond Peaksmasher!”

  “The axe with the shaft of silver—the axe with the blade of gleaming gemstone! And with his cutting edge, Grond carved the Moonshaes, cut the rock into pieces and left it as many isles. He carved the highland and grotto; he carved the vale and lake,” Garisa chanted.

  “Grond—Grond Peaksmasher!”

  “And from the highest rock, he carved the images of his children. He carved the firbolg, the giant-kin! He made them proud and he made them great. He made them the masters of his world.”

  “Grond—Grond Peaksmasher!”

  “But the rubble from his blade fell under his feet, and the refuse was crushed to gravel. And as the magic of Grond’s axe showered around him, some of the brightness fell upon the gravel … and these crumbled pieces of stone came to life.” Now Garisa’s voice fell, the tone becoming low and threatening.

  “Grond—Grond Peaksmasher!”

  “And the stones of the path came to life, and they scuttled out of the sun, away from the glory of Grond and his firbolgs! For these stones were the dwarves, and forever they resented the might of the great one who had made such grandeur of his first children, but left the dwarves mere tiny, misshapen runts.”

  “Grond—Grond Peaksmasher!”

  “And the hearts of the dwarves were black with treachery. They tumbled under the great lord’s feet and made him to think he stood upon the firmament. But then, as he raised his axe to strike again, the dwarves stole away. They carried the stones from beneath the Peaksmasher’s feet, and as he tumbled to the earth, the diamond blade chopped a mighty piece from the mountain.”

  “Grond—Grond Peaksmasher!”

  “And the slide of rock and ice entrapped him, and made of him a piece of the Moonshaes, a sturdy beam of the world itself. And the firbolgs wept and grieved, and the dwarves took up the Silverhaft Axe and carried it away.”

  “Honored is the name of Grond—Grond Peaksmasher!” chanted the firbolg tribe, moved as a single, solid spirit by the tale of their origin.

  “And still the Silverhaft Axe remains in the hands of the dwarves! Still they laugh at our grief. Still they taunt us with their prosperity, torment us with their greed.…”

  “This cannot pass!” Thurgol stormed, bounding to his feet and raising his fist in the air.

  “The axe!” shouted another giant-kin, as if on cue. “Claim it back! Claim it in the name of the Peaksmasher’s children!”

  “Aye! The axe! Kill the bearded runts!” A chorus of cries rumbled through the camp, growing into a crescendo of fury. Even the wolfdogs sensed the frenzy, adding their yaps and howls to the din rising into the night.

  Thurgol sat quietly, watching the growing fervor from beneath his hooded eyelids. The council, he knew at last, had carried him perfectly to his goal.

  * * * * *

  “Did she sleep at all last night?” Alicia could tell from the haggard look of her mother and father as they joined her at breakfast that Deirdre had had another rough night. Though Alicia’s own room was nearby, in the upper chambers of Caer Corwell’s keep, she did not share the adjoining apartments where her sister currently stayed with their parents. Thus she was spared the experience of Deirdre’s nightmares as they happened, though her parents’ attitudes in the morning left little doubt as to the night’s ordeal.

  Surprisingly, Tristan looked at Robyn instead of answering his eldest daughter’s question. The queen’s eyes were hooded, dark with concern.

  “She did … unusually so,” Robyn finally said.

  “Isn’t that good?” asked the princess, sensing the worry in her mother’s response.

  “I don’t know,” sighed the queen. “The nightmares came first. She kicked and thrashed in her sleep, tossing her head from side to side and gasping for air as if she couldn’t breathe. In the end—when, in the past, she’s always awakened screaming—she fell into a deep sleep. It frightened me as much as the nightmares, as if she had given herself up to whatever it was that pursued her. I tried to wake her, but she was beyond reach—or comprehension.”

  “What can we do? Is it enough to wait for this to pass?”

  Again Alicia saw the sharp look between her parents, but then Robyn lowered her eyes in silent defeat. Tristan answered the question.

  “When Keane gets here with the patriarch, we’ll ask him to examine her,” he said slowly while Robyn’s eyes remained downcast. He spoke to his wife as much as to his daughter. “We’ve got to try it! Nothing else seems to work, and we can’t give her up! I can’t!”

  “Nor can I,” Robyn replied, surprising Alicia with the softness of her tone.

  The princess understood that, with the resurgence of the Earthmother, the druid queen must regard with suspicion the intervention of any other gods into the Moonshaes. The “New Gods,” they had once been called, for they were seen to compete with the treasured nature goddess who had so long made these isles an enchanted, magical place.

  Yet some problems were beyond the abilities of even the Great Druid to solve, and it seemed that Deirdre’s malaise was one of these. Alicia, like her father, hoped that a cleric of one of the New Gods might offer her sister some hope of succor. Yet she could sympathize with her mother as well. Alicia herself had been touched by the magic of the Earthmother, and she understood the special role that the benign goddess played in the life of the Moonshaes. She worried about any threat to that serene balance, the eternal equilibrium of light and dark, good and evil, that provided the fulcrum of her faith.

  They spent several silent minutes picking dully at their bread and cheese. Somehow, to Alicia, the former tasted dry and stale, the latter crumbly and sharp—though both were fresh, in varieties she had enjoyed all her life.

  “It’s not like Keane to waste his time when he’s on business for the king. What can be keeping him, anyway?” demanded Tristan, breaking the silence with frustrated words.

  “He’s not wasting time!” Alicia immediately leaped to her former tutor’s defense, surprising her father with the vehemence of her statement.

  “What makes you so sure?” he pressed, more interested in her reaction than in her answer, for if the truth be told, Tristan felt certain beyond any doubt that the faithful Keane labored diligently in service of his king.

  Alicia flushed. The emotions that compelled her beliefs were not feelings she felt ready to discuss with her parents; indeed, she was just beginning to understand them herself. “He’s a loyal subject, that’s all. If he’s taking overly long, it just means that he’s run into unforeseen pr
oblems.”

  “Perhaps the patriarch is busy … or absent,” surmised the queen, with a sideways look at her daughter. “Keane would certainly try to find some other avenue, some other source of help, rather than return empty-handed.”

  King Tristan smiled wanly, unconsciously holding his hand over the blunt wrist of his left arm. “You’re right, of course. I’ve had enough demonstrations of loyalty—from all of you—that such complaints are unbecoming. I apologize,” he said to Alicia, nodding formally.

  The princess blushed even more deeply, for she sensed the teasing in his words. “He’ll be back soon!” she finished lamely.

  “Brandon departed yesterday?” Tristan mentioned idly. Alicia didn’t know if he was changing the subject or pursuing his original tack mercilessly. It was common knowledge that the Prince of Gnarhelm had sought her hand in marriage, and the fact that he had sailed away alone gave a clear enough indication of her reply.

  “Yes. He had matters in his father’s kingdom to tend. He—he plans to come to Callidyrr over the winter.” She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. The memory of his determination brought back the sensation of being trapped that she had struggled with earlier.

  “A good man, that,” the king continued, his appetite growing more hearty as his mind drifted away from his ailing daughter and his own semicrippling wound. “I remember his father, King Olafsson, though I haven’t seen him in twenty years. Still, he made a fine impression when we signed the Treaty of Oman.”

  “The treaty that made it possible for his son to help us,” Robyn pointed out. The northmen and Ffolk had been mortal enemies for many centuries until the signing of that historic pact. The peace, arranged by High King Kendrick and the kings of the north, had been reaffirmed during the recent troubles. Also, although Alicia had not been aware of this, the prospect of a unifying marriage had been considered and anticipated by both peoples.

  “Indeed,” Tristan reminisced. “It was King Olafsson who suggested the place for the ceremony. He thought that the image of the Icepeak above, with the surrounding groves of the Grampalt Highlands, made the proper setting for a peace between two such diverse populations.”

  “The Icepeak … that’s the highest mountain in the isles, isn’t it?” Alicia asked.

  “So high that its summit remains shrouded by ice and snow the full year around,” Robyn confirmed.

  “I remember often enough sailing through the strait on the voyages from Callidyrr to Corwell,” Alicia observed. “A few times the weather was clear enough that we could see the mountain. I remember the first time I saw it. Never did I think that any piece of the world could soar so high into the air!”

  “There are summits on the mainland that are higher,” the king allowed. “But none within the Moonshaes that even comes close.”

  The king was silent for a moment, then looked at Alicia with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “And now the son of Svenyird Olafsson is smitten with my daughter! What a way to seal the peace, eh, my queen?”

  “Father!” objected the princess as her mother smiled.

  Tristan held up his hand in a gesture of peace. “You didn’t imagine it was a secret, did you? Besides, it’s time you gave some thought to a husband. He’ll marry onto the throne of the High King, remember.”

  “I believe Alicia knows her own mind—well enough for now, in any event,” interjected Robyn, coming to her daughter’s rescue. Thankfully the princess made haste with the rest of her breakfast, mumbling some excuse about her horses as she rose from the table and all but raced for the doors.

  * * * * *

  An acolyte awakened Keane as the first rays of sunlight began to lighten the eastern horizon. He met the Exalted Inquisitor in the plaza, where they shared a quick breakfast of fruit and wine. By the time pale blue stretched across the full arc of the sky, the cleric announced that he was ready to depart.

  Bishou Harmanius arrived then with a long, narrow roll of silk. Keane discerned that the fabric was merely a wrapping, protecting a straight object some five feet long. The inquisitor took no note of his underling’s arrival.

  “What shall I do?” inquired Keane, still mystified as to Hyath’s intended mode of transport.

  “All questions are answered for the patient man,” intoned the inquisitor. “For now, just wait there.”

  Dressed in splendid white robes etched in trim of gold and silver thread, the inquisitor struck a grand pose, closing his eyes and clasping his hands reverently over his solid stomach.

  The words of his prayer mingled into a low chant, in a language that Keane did not recognize. The cleric spoke for more than a minute, his tone modulating from harsh to mild, flowing up and down the scale almost as if he sang.

  Abruptly Keane detected a brightening in the air before the cleric. Slowly the illumination grew more distinct, taking on a shape and solidity where before had been only the clear morning air. Soon a spinning wheel of fire resolved itself from the arcane pyrotechnics, crackling and hissing, casting showers of sparks to the paving stones of the courtyard. The shape expanded, and gradually Keane made out two blazing figures—like horses, but made from light and fire. Above the flaming wheel, he saw a platform, well shielded and quite wide enough to carry several riders.

  It was the image of a chariot, only both the vehicle and the prancing steeds in harness were etched in colors and lines of fire. The beasts kicked and pranced in their traces, eager to run … or to fly. Like ghosts, the apparitions flared before Keane, and the wizard knew he beheld an example of very powerful clerical magic.

  “The Chariot of Sustarre,” explained the patriarch proudly. “It will carry us in royal fashion.”

  “Indeed,” Keane agreed, more awed than he would have liked to admit.

  Now the inquisitor turned to Harmanius, and the bishou passed the silk-wrapped package to his master. Carrying the object in one hand, Hyath stepped into the chariot, turning once to beckon to Keane.

  The mage hesitated a bare moment, then climbed in beside the inquisitor. Fire crackled all around him, but he felt no unusual heat, though the chill of the morning air had been fully dispersed.

  Then, before he could catch his breath, the cleric shouted another word and the chariot took to the air.

  * * * * *

  Deirdre finally let herself go, giving up the resistance, the panicked flight and terrified evasions that never allowed her to elude the darkness. With her surrender came a sense of impending destiny, and as she faced her own image, she found that her slumber again restored her, revitalizing and empowering nerve and muscle and mind.

  She sensed many things as she looked into her eyes. Certainly the fear, the dark, shrouded terror, still lingered there, but no longer did these emotions boil to the surface. Instead, they lay deep within her, fueling the flames of other things … of might and power, greatness and control.

  And even more.

  * * * * *

  Talos the Destructor sensed the growing power of the woman, and he knew well that she was more than she had been now, more than any human was. The soul of his own immortal might had entered her, and now, with each passing evening, that presence sealed its grip upon her will and her soul.

  His presence stirred evil and chaos throughout the Moonshae Islands, nourished by the woman’s spirit, driven by a growing reality of vengeance. As the power of Talos swelled, others began to take notice—others who included not only mortals but also gods.

  3

  Clash at Cambro

  Thurgol saw with pleasure that, during every step of the march from Blackleaf, all evidence indicated that the dwarves remained as set in their peaceful ways as he had hoped they would. The chieftain had led a rude column of more than a hundred firbolgs and half that many trolls through the fertile bottomland of Myrloch Vale, but not once had he encountered sign of a dwarven watch post. Even the wide-ranging wolfdogs, sniffing and snarling in a pack as they accompanied the humanoids on the march, had failed to identify any spoor of dwarven activity. Now
, approaching Cambro, Thurgol saw that their foolish complacency continued.

  Though he was no moralist, the giant couldn’t entirely vanquish a small measure of unease over the attack he now contemplated. After all, twenty years of peace was no mean accomplishment. Yet now, after all those years, things were not as good as they once had been. Perhaps peace was the mistake he had made. In the end, he could see no alternative to attacking the dwarves. Doing nothing meant dying by starvation, and death in battle was an infinitely preferable alternative.

  There was also the matter of the Silverhaft Axe. At first Thurgol had felt that the axe made a handy incentive for his less broad-minded fellows, giving them a clear reason to march against the dwarves. But during the march—indeed, beginning with Garisa’s powerful recounting of the legend on the night before their departure—the ancient blade had come to mean more to Thurgol.

  Now it seemed only right and proper to him that the giant-kin regain the lost artifact of their maker. And the only way to do that, he understood, was to wage war. With the battle looming imminent, the prospects of a victory seemed better than even Thurgol had dared to hope possible. His ragged army had reached the very periphery of the dwarves’ village, and the wily chieftain concealed his troops among the underbrush no more than a hundred feet from the nearest wood-and-stone houses.

  Many dozens of such sturdy dwellings formed the cluster of homes that made the village of Cambro. A few bearded dwarves, males and females alike, clumped from this building to that, though the activity could hardly be described as bustling. A dwarven hunter carrying a stout crossbow emerged from one of the houses and started toward the forest. The few other dwarves visible all seemed to have business within the village.

  Nevertheless, the community possessed an undeniable vitality. Sounds of typical dwarven activity were every where—the hammering of smiths, the grinding of millers and the chiseling of stonecarvers all formed a musical chorus in the background of the town’s apparent placidity. It seemed, in a dim and admittedly vague sense, a bit of a shame to charge in there and start killing. Still, Thurgol had made his decision several days earlier. It was much too late to change his mind now.