Douglas Niles - Prophet of Moonshae

Lifting his heavy helmet from his head, Hanrald gasped great lungfuls of air and felt the cool breeze start to kiss the sweat from his brow, but he knew that his task remained unfinished. He stumbled to the saddlebags of his fallen steed and quickly lifted out several flasks of oil that he had carried, fuel to light his lamp or even to coax a fire from wet kindling.

He returned to the corpses, pausing only long enough to chop at a hand that had once again begun to twitch. Pouring the syrupy liquid over the grotesque masses of gore, he kicked random pieces of the trolls onto the corpses. Then, with a spark from his tinderbox, he struck a flame from each oil-sodden mass.

In moments, orange flame crackled upward, and thick, black smoke wafted into the air. The parts of the trolls vanished with an evil hiss, devoured by the one thing that could destroy them permanently. Even as they burned, Hanrald retained his watch over them, to insure that no living piece could escape the fringes of the blaze.

Only then did he remember his quest and realize that he still had no idea where the princess had gone. And now, without a horse, his current circumstance seemed to be more than a slight disadvantage. He grimly cleaned and sheathed his sword, then picked up his helmet, selected a pouchful of provisions and supplies from his saddlebag, and slung the heavy sack across his shoulder.

On foot, weary and bruised but still alive-and, more important, still a knight of the Ffolk! — Hanrald started across the rugged highland terrain, his body clinking heavily as he marched in his rigid metal boots.

The invading army of firbolgs numbered three, and this trio now stood before a battered sailboat, their broad backs to the bay, facing a suspicious and growing ring of belligerent northmen. It was to King Svenyird's credit, Alicia decided, that his warlike countrymen did not attack these traditional enemies immediately.

As usual, it rained steadily, and though it was merely afternoon, the dockside was shrouded in an evening-like cast. The Princess of Callidyrr accompanied the King of Gnarhelm and his son as they approached the giants. Alicia took care to keep the monarch between herself and the prince. She didn't think she could keep her composure if he talked to her.

The three firbolgs were hulking brutes, ten feet tall or more, with craggy faces and dark, scowling eyebrows. They wore crude garments of linen, and their feet were bare. The one in the center of the group, however, was distinguished by a huge black cape. The cloak was tied around his shoulder, with the hood thrown back to hang down his back.

"We seek the king," said the largest of the firbolgs.

"I'm the king," declared Svenyird. "What do you want?"

"No." The firbolg shook his head defiantly. "We seek the true king."

"What?" The monarch's eyes bulged. "You insolent castaways! I'll see you flogged at the post. You won't insult my-"

"Excuse me," said Tavish, smoothly sidling past the sputtering King of Gnarhelm. She eyed the cloak as she addressed the center firbolg. "Is it King Kendrick of Corwell you're looking for?"

The giant looked at her, his brows deepening into a scowl that carved gullies and ravines across his stony face. Alicia gripped Keane's arm as she saw the firbolg's expression.

"Is she in danger?" she whispered.

Keane, studying the giant, disengaged his arm and raised his hands before him-ready with an instant spell, Alicia realized.

"I think," the firbolg said finally. "King Tristan?"

"Yes, Yak- Tristan Kendrick!" Tavish stepped forward and gave the firbolg a hug around its broad midriff, surprising no one more than the giant himself, who stumbled backward and would have fallen into the bay if not for the saving reach of one of his fellows.

"Bard lady?" said Yak, his brows lowering still further as recognition came.

"Yes-I'm Tavish!"

"Good music," remarked the giant in a softer tone. "I still dream your harp sound."

"Why, Yak, you old charmer," replied Tavish, nudging his hip with her elbow.

"You know this firbolg?" Alicia demanded, asking the question that was on a thousand tongues. "How?"

"It's a long story," she explained. "He helped your father in the final battle against Bhaal."

"Enough!" barked the giant, his voice surprisingly harsh. The topic obviously annoyed him. "We bring news."

His words, in crude Commonspeech, were barely understood by the listeners. Nevertheless, the gist of his tale was clear to those close enough to follow.

"Many humans killed on Grayrock by dragon with fire-breath and fish-men from the sea. They slay and then they go. Make it look like other humans did killing. Or firbolgs. We come to tell you not us."

"Sahuagin?" asked Brandon, initial disbelief quickly converting to certainty.

"With a dragon," Tavish observed. "That's an unnatural pairing if ever I heard of one! I don't suppose you know where it lairs?"

Yak shrugged. "Flew away, over sea."

"And so there are more even than these in alliance. Those were human knights who masqueraded as the Ffolk, sacking the villages of Olafstaad," Alicia added.

"That's a lot of enemies," Keane noted. "And evidence of conspiracy, if they all serve one master."

"But finally we have an enemy before us!" Brandon proclaimed. "And now we know where to start-with the bandits of Olafstaad! We can hoist sail with the dawn and be there in a day and a half. Even if they're on horseback, we shouldn't have trouble picking up the trail!"

"Proof," noted Alicia grimly. "We'll find out what's behind this." Privately she reminded herself that the matter of Brandon Olafsson was not settled, but perhaps she could postpone its resolution until this matter was concluded.

"Tomorrow before sunrise!" cried the Prince of Gnarhelm, throwing up his arms and addressing the hundreds of men who flocked forward, pledging to serve as his crew. "The Gullwing sails for Olafstaad and the start of our vengeance!"

The cries of the men of Gnarhelm rang across the shore, and for once, the people were so loud that they drowned out the steady beat of the rain.

Robyn, High Queen of Moonshae, lay in a stillness little distinguished from death. Her second daughter, raven-haired Deirdre, looked down at her mother with a certain sadness. Nevertheless, the young woman was surprised at the remoteness of her feeling, as if a wall had grown around the softer portions of her heart, and so she felt emotion through a gray, stony filter.

Some emotions, she reminded herself, as her eyes drifted to the window. Others burned as hot-or hotter-than ever they had before.

Her thoughts turned to Malawar, as they often did when she took even the slightest moment for reflection. Many days had passed since she had last seen him, and despite the long hours of concentration required for her meditation and studies, she couldn't get the images of his golden hair, his benign smile and shining eyes, out of her mind.

A tapping at the door to her mother's chambers broke her reverie, and she opened the portal to reveal a steward.

"Lady Deirdre, a visitor has come to the castle and would desire an audience at your convenience. He is Earl Blackstone of Fairheight."

Her heart quickened, for she knew from Malawar that the earl was a confidant of the golden wizard's, and Blackstone's visit here, she hoped, might bring her news.

"See that he is fed and given rooms in the keep." This would place him close to her should they desire a surreptitious counsel. "And tell the Lord Earl that I shall attend him … in the throne room, in two hours."

"Aye, my lady."

The servant withdrew, and Deirdre cast another glance at the queen. Robyn, of course, had not moved. The princess felt a moment of guilt. She had intended to sit with her mother throughout the morning, but she shook off the feeling easily, for she was now called to an important matter.