Douglas Niles - The Coral Kingdom

After tuning her harp, Tavish sent songs of joy and celebration wafting through the camp. She played short, lively songs, ribald ballads, and sang gentle verses of love and valor-all of it music that floated through the night, a perfect counterpoint in sound to the idyllic grotto surrounding them.

Alicia listened to the songs dreamily. Idly she looked around again, wondering if Hanrald had returned, but neither he nor Brigit were anywhere to be seen.

Her gaze drifted over to Brandon, who looked back at her and grinned. She saw a light in his eyes. Was it the reflection of the fire, or something else? When she looked at Keane, the magic-user seemed morose, sitting quietly by himself and staring into the flames.

Abruptly the princess rose to her feet, surprised that her legs seemed slightly unsteady beneath her. Nevertheless, she started into the darkness beyond the pale of their fire. Soon the thickness of the grotto's grove surrounded her with foliage, blocking out the glow of the fire behind her and the glimmer of starlight overhead.

Alicia wondered for a moment why she had walked off like this. She couldn't find anything out here, and that, she admitted, was probably a blessing. Or had she come out here to find anything? Perhaps she wanted instead to get away. Everything seemed terribly confusing to her.

"It's the wine," she mumbled, turning back to the fire.

"The wine. . and the firelight on your hair."

The voice was Brandon's, and it came to her as a shock. He had followed her into the darkness!

"Wh-what do you mean?" she demanded, startled.

"I didn't mean to frighten you," explained the northman hastily, placing his hands on her arms. For a moment, she froze, barely seeing his tall form in the darkness. But when he leaned closer, she raised her lips to his and they met in a long kiss.

It is the wine, she told herself as a torrent of emotions, thrilling and frightening, poured through her. His strong arms clasped her firmly, and she found that grasp comforting. . and welcome.

"I love you, Alicia, and I would sail to the stars and back if that would win your love in return!"

The suppressed tension in his voice surprised Alicia, and it excited her to realize that she had such an effect on this proud and independent man.

And then they had no more time for words as their lips met in another kiss. Slowly, gently, Brandon lowered Alicia to the ground.

Keane watched and waited, staring at the place in the darkness where the northman and the princess had disappeared. A thicker blackness than mere night threatened to sweep over him, and his mind worked its way through a variety of imagined pictures-the two of them alone, in the woods, on this night of celebration and leave-taking.

For a moment, anger-unfamiliar, taut, and powerful-coursed through Keane. He thought of a thousand things he could do, ranging from a shower of light through the woods to violent, explosive magic directed at Brandon.

Even in a despairing rage, he could never hurt Alicia, and in point of fact, he knew that he would take no action against Brandon either. Yet it mollified him a little to imagine it.

Realizing that the celebration had lost its allure for him, Keane made his farewells and wandered off to his bed.

"How often do they come to you?" inquired Tristan, after Marqillor had regained his strength from the dousing of water. The merman's skin glowed, his eyes shone, and his voice came forth with a vigor that had not been there minutes earlier.

"Not often." The merman shrugged. "Perhaps every three days, though of course it's hard to tell down here."

"Recently?"

"No. That's why you found me in such bad shape. I'd suspect it won't be long now."

"How many at a time?"

"Just one." Marqillor's eyes flashed as he began to understand Tristan's point. "A big scrag. He comes out of the water and taunts me for a bit, kicks me and the like. Then he throws the water over me so I'll stay alive until the next time."

Tristan looked around, seeking something-anything-that he could use as a weapon. He had heard of the sea trolls, of course, and now he felt reasonably certain that the beast that had brought him his food was one as well. He had battled enough trolls in his life to identify the scrag as an aquatic cousin of that obscene race.

The only thing he found was the large bucket of hammered copper he had used to throw the water over the merman. "I'd rather have a sword," he observed, ruefully examining the distressingly flimsy container. He was weighing the fact that he would have to bear it in his single hand.

Tristan turned his attention to the metal brackets holding Marqillor's hands. Despite the corrosive rinsings, the manacles remained gleaming and clean, displaying a high level of craftsmanship.

"It's no use," said the merman with another awkward shrug. "I've spent weeks tugging on them myself. The only way to get them off is with the key."

"Does that scrag carry the keys with him?"

"Yes-and a big knife, too." The merman's face creased into a slight smile. "He keeps the knife in the back of his belt, probably so that a prisoner doesn't try to grab it from him. Maybe that can work to your advantage."

At Marqillor's affirmation, the basics of their plan were set. Tristan took the bucket and crossed the cell, making himself as comfortable as possible in a shadowy niche beside the pool. He settled down for a long wait, yet strove to remain ready to scramble out at a moment's notice, trying not to let his mind dwell on the coming fight.

Still, images of horror and shock raced through his mind. Previously he had vanquished trolls while wearing metal armor, bearing a mighty sword, and more often than not, mounted on a stalwart charger, aided by resolute companions. The prospect of attacking one of the creatures unarmored and virtually bare-handed-one-handed, in point of fact! — struck him as rash to the point of insanity. Not insanity, he corrected himself-just brutal necessity.

Marqillor leaned back against the wall, trying to relax. Time passed with imperceptible speed. Tristan struggled to remain alert, holding the bucket, watching the water, silent but ready to spring forward.

The scrag came out of the water so quickly that it had fully emerged and stood dripping at the rim of the pool before Tristan even noticed beast's arrival.

Then his mind blanked momentarily in sheer panic at the size of the monster. It stood at least nine feet high. The creature possessed considerably more muscle than did the land-bound trolls he had encountered. Strapping bands of sinew rippled under its dark, fishlike skin as it stepped toward the imprisoned merman. Its feet and hands were webbed and tipped with long, wicked talons, and a burst of weedy hair covered the nape of the neck and extended halfway down the broad green back.

A wide belt was the scrag's only garment, and true to Marqillor's prediction, a silver-bladed, bone-handled knife was stuck through the waistband at the small of the creature's back. On the right side, looped through the belt, gleamed a keyring.

Tristan had no time to waste. The beast was certain to look around for the bucket and discover him, costing Tristan his only advantage.

At the same instant he came to the conclusion, Tristan acted. Holding the pail inverted in his hand, balancing it with the stump of his left wrist, Tristan sprinted from the niche, leaping toward the monster's shoulders. He brought the bucket down full over the monster's large, shaggy head. Bashing it with his wrist, ignoring the pain that shot like fire up his arm, he forced the metal container tightly onto the creature's great skull, where it stuck like a bizarre helm.

Immediately the scrag whirled, reaching for Tristan with two talon-studded hands, but the High King wrapped his arms around the beast's waist, following it through its spin and staying beyond the reach of those deadly claws. The scrag snarled as it turned, making a sound like water sucked down a drainhole.