Douglas Niles - The Druid Queen

The Exalted Inquisitor entered the room, his gold-trimmed robe trailing behind him like a full rank of attendants. He fixed Robyn with a fast, icy glare, an expression she returned in full, before stepping to the side of the king's bed and kneeling.

"Your Majesty, I understand now. During my slumber, Helm blessed me with a vision. I know what must be done!"

"Wait a minute!" blurted Alicia. "After what happened before? You don't mean you're going to try again?"

"Not immediately, no," replied Hyath, smiling benignly at the princess-like a forgiving schoolteacher to a dull student, Alicia thought angrily. "First there is something that must be done."

"What? What is it?" demanded Tristan, flinging aside the covers. "By the goddess, I don't need a sickbed!" he roared, climbing to his feet and crossing to one of the chairs before the hearth. "Sit down and tell me what you want," he said to the patriarch of Helm.

Robyn remained frozen in place, her face gone white with fear. Alicia crossed to her, angry with the priest but not understanding her mother's dire reaction. She sat beside her, taking her mother's hand.

"First there is a matter of honor and gratitude I would address." He raised the silk-wrapped package that Keane had seen him carry into the flying chariot. "It is a gift, if you will allow, from myself and, with your permission, from my god. It would please me greatly if it meets with your approval."

Curious, Tristan took the long shape and rested it across his knees. Awkwardly, limited by his one hand, he pulled the silk away, unrolling it through several layers before he revealed a splendid sword and a smooth leather scabbard.

"By the Great Mother, this is a weapon worthy of a king," Tristan breathed, his tone hushed and awestruck. He seized the gold-embossed hilt, which was narrow and sleek, sized for a single hand. Pulling slowly, he revealed inch after inch of silvery blade until the full expanse of keen steel, fully four feet long, came free of its leather sheath.

"I thank you, Patriarch," Tristan said softly. He stood and flourished the blade, relishing the smooth balance, the slender length and deadly edge, as sharp as any razor. "It is a blade I shall wear with pride."

"And with which, no doubt, you'll strive to do what is right for your people and your land. That will is yours alone. I shall tell you only that the blade is blessed by the gods, and only through its use will their will be known."

"A potent protection indeed," Tristan said, turning back to regard the cleric shrewdly. "Now tell me, priest, what is the nature of your vision?" asked the king, settling himself to listen.

"There is evil in your realm!" the cleric intoned firmly. "My god requires-nay, demands-that this evil be rooted out and destroyed!"

"Name this evil!" snapped Tristan, not at all happy about anyone demanding anything from him. He slapped the sword back into its scabbard, though he still held the weapon comfortably across his knees.

"It is a force on this very island, marching to war through a valley around a great lake-"

"Myrloch!" Robyn whispered, her pulse quickening.

"Already they ravage the dwarves. Soon they will turn against humans, elves-all who would live in peace!" The cleric spoke intensely, staring into Tristan's eyes. "It is an army that must be destroyed-destroyed by you!"

"What nonsense is this?" demanded the king, though his tone showed a trace of doubt. "Who would dare disturb the peace of Myrloch Vale?"

"The vision showed me great, misshapen creatures-giants, with gnarled tree-trunk legs and low, sloping foreheads. They carried clubs and hurled boulders."

"Firbolgs?" Tristan all but gasped. Since their defeat in the Darkwalker War twenty years ago, the few surviving giant-kin had withdrawn peacefully to their remote lairs, offering no disturbance. He stood in agitation, pacing to one end of the library before turning back to hear the Exalted Inquisitor continue detailing his vision.

"And other creatures were there, too-greenish of skin, with great noses and wicked talons. They, too, are monstrous, standing far taller than a man."

"Trolls?" The king shook his head in amazement. "It-it's preposterous!"

The cleric sat back and regarded the monarch silently.

"Why has there been no word? How long has this destruction been going on?"

Hyath shrugged. "I have no way of knowing. Is this 'Myrloch Vale' a remote place? Perhaps there have been no survivors following the rampages of such villages as can be found there."

"Not even any villages," the king admitted with a shake of his head.

"But there are druids!" Robyn snapped, rising and crossing the room to confront the two men. She felt confident now that the discussion had turned to Myrloch Vale. After all, she had received her training in the druidic arts there, and no place was more sacred to the worship of the goddess Earthmother. It was a place that was more than a second home to her; it was the heart and soul of her goddess's spirit. "And furthermore, if something threatened the sanctity of the vale, I would know it!"

The cleric didn't try to dispute her. Instead, he shrugged, a maddeningly casual expression, and directed himself to the king. "I can remain but a short time. However, if you decide to acknowledge the clear will of Helm, I shall make every effort to assist you so that we can complete the matter which has brought me here in the first place."

"There is no war-no army of monsters!" Robyn protested. "You'll be wasting your time!"

Tristan looked up at her, and she saw the distress in his eyes, the despair at the notion that he, a proud warrior-king, would remain a cripple for the rest of his life. She also saw the stubborn determination that had brought him to his throne and held him so securely to the wise course the two of them had plotted for the Ffolk.

"Are you absolutely sure?" he asked. "That there's no threat, no danger out there?"

She was sure, in her own mind, but again she saw that look of fear on her husband's face. It was a look she had seen very rarely, and now, as always before, it frightened her to think that Tristan was afraid. She couldn't increase that fear with a curt rejection of his hope.

"I don't know how it could be otherwise," she said gently. "But in order to make certain, I'll journey to the vale and see for myself. I hope your schedule will allow you to remain a day or two until my return," she added in an icy tone to the Exalted Inquisitor.

"Of course," he bowed, ignoring her manner. "But isn't this valley some distance away? Can you journey there and back in two days?"

"Patriarchs of Helm," Robyn concluded pointedly, "are not the only persons of faith who can travel with speed."

Her preparations were simple, and ten minutes later the High Queen bid her family farewell. She quickly climbed the steps of the high tower, acknowledging a tiny voice of alarm inside her, a voice that warned that the cleric of Helm might just possibly be right.

No! She would know if some evil disturbed the vale! Wouldn't she? Angrily but unsuccessfully, she tried to dispel the nagging doubt.

She reached the platform atop the tower and paused for a moment. Again the sweep of moor and firth spread below, but now the scene did not soothe her. Too many questions disturbed her mood as she stepped to the rim of the parapet.

Spreading her arms out wider, she toppled into the air.

Then a white hawk soared from the high tower, catching a powerful updraft and rising swiftly into the sky. The bird's course remained constantly northward, toward the wide valley of Myrloch.

Almost holding his breath in tense anticipation, Thurgol watched Garisa prepare for her foretelling. She had before her a smooth copper bowl, half filled with clear water. She sprinkled some dark dust into the bowl and stirred it with a grimy finger, smiling with satisfaction as the water dimmed to a murky brown.