Moonshae_Trilogy_1_-_Darkwalker_on_Moonshae

D

ARKWALKER

ON

M

MOONSHAE

Douglas Niles

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DARKWALKER ON MOONSHAE

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PRELUDE

THE GODDESS AWAKENED slowly from her cold sleep,

awareness returning as the chill blanket of the

passing season fell away. Turning with imperial

grace, she sought the life-giving force of the renewed

sun.

Soon she felt its warmth upon the long and gravelly

beaches of her coastlines, and upon the stagnant

expanses of her low, flat marshes. Slowly, the sun

drove winter’s blanket from the rolling moors and

tilled fields.

The white mantle remained thick and heavy among

the forests and glens of the goddess, and the high-

lands still showed no sign of acknowledging winter’s

end This was all as it should be, and the goddess

rejoiced in the growing vitality of her body, the earth.

She had grown smaller, of late, but her strength

was great. Her lands, though threatened, were in the

capable care of her druids, and even the harbingers of

the new gods treated her with a certain deference. In

the Moonwells—places where her power flowed

directly from her spirit to her body—water of high

magic lay clear and pristine among thick pines, and

in rocky clefts.

Cool seas bathed her lands, cleansing the debris

and decay left by the passing of winter. The goddess

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BOOK I

saw that her children still slept peacefully. They

could, she hoped, sleep long years still before she

needed to call them.

Through the Moonwells, she saw the clearing skies.

No longer did the heavy, iron-gray stormclouds

oppress her. The Ffolk were active, preparing for a

new season of growth. The druids moved among the

trees and mountains of her wild reaches, restoring

places where winter had disrupted the Balance.

Yet, as she threw off her blanket, she felt a sudden,

stabbing pain, penetrating deep within her. Hot and

threatening, the injury seemed ready to spread like a

cancer through her self.

One of the Moonwells was the source of the pain.

Instead of providing a window into the world, full of

cool and healthy power, the well burned like a poi-

soned wound. Very black, it blocked the light and

absorbed her power, instead of nourishing it. As she

awakened, the goddess felt fear.

And she knew that, once again, the Beast would

stalk the land.

Douglas Niles

2

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1

EQUINOX

THE FIELDS AROUND Caer Corwell beckoned

brightly, as colored tents, proud banners, and gay

costumes all competed for the eye of the fairgoer. The

Festival of the Spring Equinox signaled the end of

winter, and the beginning of a season of new hope

and promise. To such an event, the Ffolk would come

from throughout the Kingdom of Corwell, and even

beyond, to join the celebration.

The deep harbor at the terminus of Corwell Firth

bristled with masts. The deep, sturdy coracles of the

Ffolk bobbed next to sleek longships of the north-

men, and both were dwarfed by the looming decks of

Calishite trading galleons.

Tristan Kendrick, Prince of Corwell, forced his way

through the crowd eagerly, barely absorbing the

sights and sounds all around him. A troop of Cal-

ishite jugglers stood among the crowd, each deftly

controlling a ring of glittering scimitars. Tristan,

impatient, passed around the jugglers without

seeing them. He ignored the hawkers of bright silk,

though the oily Calishite trader sold colors never

before imagined in Corwell. In his haste, he even

passed the booths where the skilled armorsmiths of

4

Caer Calidyrr displayed shining steel swords.

“Hello, Tristan!” called one of the farmers, arrang-

ing jugs of milk on a table before him.

“Good morning,” added a fisherman from the vil-

lage.

And so it went as he passed through the crowd,

receiving polite and friendly greetings from most

of the Ffolk. As usual, Tristan felt a brief flash of

annoyance, for no one addressed him by his title.

Just once, he would like to hear “Hello, my prince!”

or something equally appropriate.

But then he shrugged these thoughts away, just as

he shrugged away all serious thought of his rank,

and the responsibilities of his name. One day, per-

haps, he would give some thought to the duties he

would eventually face as king, but today . . . today he

had a mission here at the fair!

His step speeded up, and pretty country maids, in

fresh gowns of light linen, smiled coyly at him. The

prince felt very dashing, reflexively stroking the new

coat of hair upon his chin. His first beard had grown

in full and curling, slightly darker in color than his

wavy brown hair. His new woolen cloak and leather

trousers looked clean and shiny against his black

leather boots.

He felt alert and alive, full of spring fever.

Passing from the tents and stalls of the goods mer-

chants, Tristan moved between corrals and pens,

ignoring the sheep, the cattle, and even the horses.

Finally, he reached an expanse of clustered pens, and

here he found his objective.

“Greetings, my liege,” piped a cheerful voice, and

Tristan smiled at the advancing form of Pawldo, the

halfling.

DARKWALKER ON MOONSHAE

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wine cellars, Pawldo lived a life of excitement and

travel.

“I’ve spent the winter scouring the Sword Coast

and the Moonshaes, collecting the finest lot of dogs

you’ve ever seen. And I found the one for you, just to

the west of here—on the Isle of Moray. You won’t be

able to resist him!” Again Pawldo smiled, with a

slight twist to the corners of his mouth.

“Let’s have a look at him,” said Tristan, directing

his attention to the small pen behind Pawldo.

This year Pawldo was a dealer in hounds, and as

usual, his goods were offered in an assortment of

styles, for a variety of purses. Even as his eyes

passed quickly over the collection of bored dogs lying

in the sun, Tristan saw the one magnificent animal,

caught his breath, and whistled.

Trying to sound casual, he said, “Not a bad-looking

dog.”

“As if you had cause to doubt. . .” Pawldo started to

retort, but Tristan was not listening.

The animal was a moorhound—one of the savage

hunting dogs bred exclusively on the Moonshae

Islands. This was not remarkable—Trstan already

owned a dozen of the large dogs. But this moorhound

was a large and powerful specimen with a proud

bearing quite unusual for its kind.

Among the terriers, racers, and wolfhounds in

Pawldo’s collection, this great brown moorhound

stood out like a princess among scullery maids. His

brown coat gleamed, thick and smooth, over broad

shoulders and long, slender legs. Even for a

moorhound, he was huge. His eyes were riveted on

Tristan, just as the prince studied him.

“Where did you find him?” Tristan asked.

DARKWALKER ON MOONSHAE

7

“It’s good to see you, my friend,” the prince said sin-

cerely, clasping the diminutive man’s hand. “I’m glad

you made it back from your winter voyages safely.”

Pawldo beamed at the greeting, but his eyes held a

hint of avarice. The halfling was a stout and sturdy

little man, perhaps an inch or two over three feet in

height. He wore a weathered leather jacket and old,

but well-oiled boots. His gray hair hung over his ears

and collar, and his smiling face was clean-shaven and

free of wrinkles, though Pawldo was over sixty years

old.

Halflings lived on all the Isles of the Moonshaes,

mostly as neighbors to human settlements.

Although they were one of the original races, along

with the dwarves and the Llewyrr elves, to inhabit

the islands, they had adapted well to the coming of

humans. Now, they profited from business dealings

with the Ffolk, and benefited from the protection

afforded by nearby castles.

“And how are you, old crook?” asked the prince.

“Very well, and better soon, when I’ve had a chance

to part you from your purse!” responded Pawldo. The

halfling, shrewdly eyeing the leather pouch hanging

from Tristan’s belt, quickly concealed a smile of satis-

faction.

Tristan could not suppress a surge of affection for

his old companion. Pawldo ostensibly lived in

Lowhill, the community of halfling burrows a mere

mile from Caer Corwell. The hardy old adventurer,

however, spent most of the year traveling about the

Moonshae Islands and the rest of the world in pur-

suit of profit, so the prince saw very little of him.

Unlike most halflings, who were content to enjoy the

pastoral comforts of their burrows, pantries, and

Douglas Niles

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fine animal. I’ll give you ten gold for him!”

With a wail of anguish, Pawldo staggered back-

ward. “The sea swelled over the bows,” he cried in

his high, squeaking voice. “Bold sailors grew pale

with fear, and would have retreated, but I pressed

on! I knew, I told myself, of a prince who would sac-

rifice his kingdom for such a dog—a prince who

would reward well the steadfastness of an erstwhile

friend . . . who would—”

“Hold!” cried Tristan, raising his hand and looking

the halfling in the eye while trying to keep from

laughing. “You shall have twenty, but no m—”

“Twenty!” The halfling’s voice squealed in outrage.

He turned to the listeners and threw out his hands, a

picture of wounded innocence. The two northmen

chuckled at his posturing.

“The sails hung in tatters from the beam! We

nearly capsized a dozen times. Waves the size of

mountains smashed us . . . and he offers me twenty

gold!” Pawldo turned back to the prince, whose smile

was growing thin. “Why a dog like this, to one who

knew such creatures, would fetch a hundred gold in

an instant—in any civilized port in the world!”

The halfling smiled disarmingly. “Still, we are

friends, and so I would remain. He is yours . . . for

eighty gold!” Pawldo bowed with a flourish to the

gasps of the growing crowd. Never had a dog been

sold for half of that asking price!

“You overestimate the size of my purse,” retorted

the prince, knowing full well that the price was going

to stretch the limits of his allowance. Ruefully, Tris-

tan groped for a bargaining strategy, but his purse

felt very vulnerable. Pawldo knew him too well; the

prince could not resist such a magnificent dog.

DARKWALKER ON MOONSHAE

9

“Came across with me from Norland, he did. Rode

in the bow like he was born to the sea. I’ve never seen

him take any notice of a man—until now that is.”

Tristan strode to the dog’s side, and knelt on the

muddy grass, his eyes level with the dog’s. He

thought of his hounds. Already they were fierce and

loyal hunters—but with a dog such as this to lead

them, they would be the finest pack of dogs in the

Isles! Tristan slowly took the great head in his

hands. The shaggy tail flickered slightly, swaying

from side to side.

The prince stared into the moorhound’s eyes and

whispered, “We shall be the greatest hunters on

Gwynneth—no, on all the Moonshaes! Even the Fir-

bolgs of the Highlands will tremble in fear at your

cry.

“Your name will be Canthus.” The dog regarded the

prince keenly, brown eyes shining. His mouth opened

slightly as he panted, and Tristan noted teeth the

size of his little finger.

A number of onlookers had gathered to observe

the prince, and Tristan felt a quick rush of pride as

he realized that they looked with equal admiration

upon his dog. A pair of savage, yellow-bearded

northmen stood behind Pawldo, jabbering in their

strange tongue full of yerg and url sounds. Several

fisherffolk, a woodsman, and two young boys also

watched. A crimson cloak, among the plain garb of

the villagers, marked a young Calishite trader, star-

ing in wonderment.

Tristan tried to conceal his eagerness as he stood

and turned back to Pawldo, but his palms were

sweating. He must have this dog! Trying to look dis-

interested, he opened the bidding. “He is indeed a

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mass of Caer Corwell, towering above the com-

monsfield on its rocky knoll, and thought briefly

of his father. If the king would not even see

Robyn—his beloved ward—then he would have

nothing to do with anyone.

“Never mind. Let the old coot sit and brood if he

wants to!” Tristan ignored the hurt look upon

Robyn’s face. “Did you see my new prize?”

“He’s a fine animal,” admitted Robyn somewhat

coldly. “But so was his price!”

“Yes, indeed,”chuckled Pawldo. The halfling thrust

out his hand again.

Tristan reached for his coin purse. He took minor

notice of a crimson flash to the side—the passing of

the Calishite in his bright cloak.

And then his hand closed upon air, where the fat

pouch had been.

He looked toward the ground, suddenly alarmed,

but then turned and stared. The red cloak was

nowhere to be seen.

“Thief!” Tristan cursed loudly, and sprinted in the

direction he had last seen the flash of crimson. Robyn

and Pawldo, momentarily surprised, started after

him.

Darting around a tent, and barely avoiding a tall

stack of kegs, Tristan saw the flash of red some dis-

tance away. He caught a glimpse of dark eyes, and

then his quarry disappeared.

The prince dashed through a wine tent, leaping

several low benches and scattering several early

imbibers. Stumbling from the canvas structure back

into the aisle between tents, he looked for the thief.

Again the flash of red, and this time the prince

closed the distance. The Calishite sprang away with

DARKWALKER ON MOONSHAE

11

“I can offer you forty, but that is all I—”

“Forty gold,” pronounced Pawldo, still playing the

crowd. “A respectable sum, for a dog. If we talked of a

normal dog, I would say yes in an instant.”

“Fifty,” declared the prince, starting to get annoyed

at the high cost of doing business with Pawldo.

“Sold!”

“Well done! Bravo!”

The praise was accompanied by hearty handclap-

ping and a delighted, feminine laugh.

“Thank you, my dear Lady Robyn,” acknowledged

Pawldo, with a theatrical bow.

“And you—I’m surprised you got that crooked

halfling down from a hundred,” Robyn said to Tris-

tan. The young woman’s black hair gleamed in the

sunlight, and her green eyes sparkled. Unlike most

of the young ladies at the festival, she was clad in

practical garb—green leggings and a cape the color

of bright rust. Yet her beauty outshone that of the

most daintily dressed maidens.

The prince returned Robyn’s bright smile, pleased

to encounter her. The festival would be even more

fun if he could enjoy it with her on his arm.

“Are you here to buy a dog?” he asked, ignoring

Pawldo’s outstretched hand.

“No. I just came down here to see the animals.

The castle was too dark and cold for such a lovely

day!”

“Did you talk to my father this morning?” Tristan

asked, and immediately wished he hadn’t when he

saw the flash of pain on her face.

“No,” she said quietly, turning her head to the side.

“The king . . . wanted to be alone.”

“I understand,” replied Tristan. He looked at the

Douglas Niles

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thief’s stance beckoned.

As Tristan paused, the curved dagger flashed

outward and up. The prince instinctively blocked

the blow with his own knife, but he was shocked

by the swiftness of the hissing blade.

The thief, too, looked surprised at the quickness of

the parry. “You use it well,” he acknowledged in

heavily accented Commonspeech, indicating the

heavy knife.

The crowd grew rapidly, but stood well back from

the fight. Their mood was tense and quiet now, as

they sensed the danger. But no one dared to inter-

vene.

For the first time, Tristan felt a flash of worry. The

thief was so cool, even pleasant, yet he must know

that he had been caught. Why did he not simply sur-

render?

Suddenly, catlike, the man sprang. The attack

almost caught Tristan off guard, but his keyed

instincts sent him darting to the side. He grasped the

thief’s wrist as his attacker’s momentum carried him

past. Then, kicking out sharply to the side, the prince

knocked the Calishite to the ground.

But suddenly the grip in which Tristan held his foe

reversed itself, and the prince felt himself being

flung backward.The wind exploded from his lungs as

he landed heavily on his back. Like lightning, the

thief sprang toward his chest, curved dagger flashing

toward the prince’s neck.

Ignoring the pain in his chest, Tristan thrust his

knife to block the attack, then grasped his

attacker’s wrist with his free hand. In a dizzying

roll, they tumbled across the muddy grass, first one,

then the other holding the advantage. Giving a

DARKWALKER ON MOONSHAE

13

renewed speed, pushing roughly through groups of

people, and once spilling a stack of pots and pans into

the prince’s path.The thief ran well, but Trstan’s legs

carried him quickly over the ground, springing over

obstacles or cutting sharply around corners. Often

Arlen, the prince’s frustrated teacher, had forced his

student to run across the moors for hours at a time,

developing his endurance and, incidentally, using up

boyish energy. That training now paid off as Tristan

picked up speed down a straight aisle.

People turned to gape in astonishment at the two

runners. Quickly, the chase drew the attention of the

festival-goers. Many of the Ffolk, recognizing Tristan

and thinking it was some sort of merry game, gave

shouts and laughter of encouragement; soon the

prince was followed by an enthusiastic throng urging

him on.

Finally the prince closed the gap; with a desper-

ate dive, he grabbed the crimson cloak and jerked

the thief to the ground. Tristan fell heavily over

him, rolling once and then springing to his feet.

The thief also recovered, but by the time he stood,

the pair were surrounded by a mob of festival-

goers.

Whirling, the swarthy Calishite confronted the

prince with a long, curved dagger. Tristan quickly

snatched his own hunting blade from its sheath

and stopped ten feet from the Calishite. For sev-

eral seconds, the pair observed and judged each

other.

The thief, about Tristan’s size and not much

older, began to grin in anticipation, though it was

mixed with grudging respect for his opponent. The

black eyes flashed with humor, and danger, and the

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Meanwhile, the thief regarded the prince, the

guards, and Robyn with slowly dawning understand-

ing.

“Prince?” he questioned, looking toward Pawldo for

confirmation. “So I stole the purse of a prince!” The

thief gave a rueful chuckle. “Luck of a she-camel,” he

declared in disgust, spitting into the grass. “What do

we do now?”

“Your luck will only get worse;’ grunted Erian as he

grabbed the Calishite by the scruff of his neck. Lift-

ing the thief easily, the huge man roughly frisked his

body.

“Here,” grunted the thief, awkwardly reaching

into his boot. He tossed the pouch of coins to Tris-

tan. “You’ll probably want these back,” and he

gave that rueful chuckle again. Against his will,

Tristan felt himself liking the bravado of the

young thief.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“My name is Daryth—of Calimshan.”

“Come along, now!” ordered Erian, forcefully

pushing the thief forward. “Let’s see what the king

has to say about this.” Daryth stumbled, and the

surly guard cuffed his head.

Robyn tugged at the prince’s arm as the guard led

the thief away. “If Erian takes him to the king,” she

whispered, “he’ll be executed for certain!” Her eyes

were wide with concern.

Thstan looked at the departing thief, and once

again felt that strange pang of jealousy. Still, he had

his purse back and the incident was over; it was not

enough to warrant a death sentence.

“Come on,” he grunted. “I don’t know what good it’ll

do, but we might as well go along with them.” He was

DARKWALKER ON MOONSHAE

15

wrenching twist, the thief suddenly broke free and

stood. Before he could step clear, however, Tristan

swept his leg through a circular kick. His foot

landed behind the thief’s knee, and the man

dropped heavily. Tristan leaped onto him, holding

his knife to the stranger’s throat.

Slowly, the Calishite relaxed and then, amaz-

ingly, began to laugh. Tristan wondered if the man

was crazy, then he realized he was nodding toward

Tristan’s stomach. The prince looked down to see

the curved dagger poised a scant hairsbreadth

from his gut. As the prince tried to keep from gasp-

ing, the thief relaxed his hold, dropping the dagger

to the ground.

“I had no wish to hurt you,” he announced, in a

heavy accent. I only wanted to see if I could best

you.” He laughed again with unmistakable good

humor.

“Stand asidel Make way!” A squeaking voice parted

the crowd, and Pawldo burst through the ring of

onlookers. With him came Erian, a great bear of a

man and one of Caer Corwell’s veteran men-at-arms.

Robyn trailed behind.

“Are you all right, my prince?” inquired the

halfling.

Tristan was about to answer when he noticed,

with some annoyance, that Robyn was not looking

at him, nor did she seem in the least bit worried

about him. Instead, she stared at the Calishite thief

with a curiosity the prince found strangely objec-

tionable.

Suddenly she flashed a look at him, and grinned.

“That was a neat trick. Did you ever see a blade move

so fast?”

Douglas Niles

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Moonshae_Trilogy_1_-_Darkwalker_on_Moonshae

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